


Omnibus

by dhampir72



Category: James Bond (Craig movies), James Bond (Movies), Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-09-04
Updated: 2017-07-10
Packaged: 2018-02-16 02:24:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 21
Words: 35,218
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2252337
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dhampir72/pseuds/dhampir72
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of prompt fills from Tumblr, posted by request.</p><p>Chapter 18-20: Short prompt challenges:<br/>Ch 18 - Harry Potter Au<br/>Ch 19 - Pacific Rim AU<br/>Ch 20 - The Road to El Dorado AU</p><p>Chapter 21-26: "The Things You Said" fic meme<br/>Ch 21 - The Things You Said When We Were the Happiest We Ever Were</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Allergies

**Author's Note:**

> For the Hurt/Comfort meme: #19 Allergies for [Mistflyer1102.](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Mistflyer1102)
> 
> I took some liberties with this one :3

If Bond never saw another aeroplane again, it would be too soon. 

Every possible problem had arisen on his flight back to London from Seoul: cancelled flights due to weather, postponed connections because of technical issues or needed repairs. On top of it, Bond had definitely lost his luggage during one of the transfers and he doubted that he would ever see it again. He hoped that Q would not be too upset that he had failed to bring home the souvenir tea he had promised.

“Don’t worry about it,” Q assured him, when Bond rang from Amsterdam, “one more flight and you’ll be home. That’s all that matters.” 

The flight was delayed because of storm, leaving Bond and two hundred other passengers stranded on the runway for a few hours with nothing to eat but bagged peanuts and unsalted pretzels. Even alcohol couldn’t ease the anxious thing in Bond that begged to be back at the flat he shared with Q, to have a warm shower and dinner and then ten straight hours of a long-overdue sleep.

By the time Bond arrived in London, he made it just in time for the evening commute home, which got him back to the flat much later than he intended. He found Q already home from Six, standing over the hob as he prepared dinner. After two days of cardboard sandwiches and vending machine snacks, the smell was more than welcome. 

“You’re a sight for sore eyes,” Bond said, as he came up behind Q and put his arms round the other man’s waist. 

“And a hungry stomach, I’m sure,” Q replied, as Bond nuzzled at his neck. The tension from the mission and the travel seemed to drop from him in that moment, relief and happiness filling its place. Bond would never trade his previous life for anything; having Q to come home to made the job worth it. 

Q turned his head and gave Bond a quick peck on the lips. 

“This will be ready in five minutes. Go have a shower in the meantime,” he said, as if he knew the order of Bond’s needs without having to ask. 

“You’re perfect, have I told you that?”

“Hmmm, no, that’s a new one. Tell me again.”

“You’re perfect.”

“I could get used to this.”

Bond turned him round and nudged him against the counter so that he could kiss him properly. It had been almost a month since they had been together like this, and Bond thought that he could easily forgo the shower and dinner if it meant getting their clothes off right then. But Q broke the kiss, eyes a little mischievous, but his tone ever practical:

“You’ve only got four minutes now,” he said and nodded towards the shower. 

“After dinner?” Bond asked, and Q gave him a promising smile as he returned to tending their meal. 

Taking that as something to look forward to, he hurried off to their bedroom to change. Bond was just about to step into the shower when he heard Q coughing from the kitchen. Turning the tap off, Bond peeked his head out of bathroom and called:

“Alright?”

“Fine…” came Q’s reply, followed by more coughing. It didn’t sound right, strained in a way that sounded unlike a cough triggered by spices or illness, and so Bond hurriedly shrugged into his dressing gown before making his way to the kitchen. 

He found Q leaning against the refrigerator door, his hand grasping at his own throat as he took in shaky breaths. In the minute that Bond had been gone, his complexion had gone ashen and when he looked at Bond, his expression was nothing short of panicked. 

“Did you--” Q gasped, pulling at the collar of his shirt as Bond eased him down to sit on the floor. He quickly undid the buttons at Q’s throat to help him breathe. That’s when he saw the splotches of red climbing up Q’s neck like ivy and he immediately realised what he had done.

He had eaten peanuts on the plane…

...and Q was highly allergic. 

Even something as harmless as a kiss had set off a massive reaction, but Bond did not have time for feeling guilty. As much as Bond didn’t want to leave Q alone, he had to get him help. There was an Epipen in the medicine cabinet in the bathroom, and Bond went straight there, nearly tearing the mirrored door off its hinges in his haste. Once he had the syringe, Bond dashed back to the kitchen and knelt down next to Q, who was now completely covered in hives and barely able to take in air.

He ripped off the plastic cap and jabbed the needle into Q’s thigh, holding onto his lover when he jerked as the epinephrine hit his blood stream. Within seconds, Q started gasping in large lungfuls of air, shaking as his body rapidly recovered from the anaphylactic shock.

“I’m sorry,” Bond replied, as he slumped back against the fridge and pulled Q against him. He rubbed at Q’s back, petted his hair as he continued uttering his apologies: “I’m sorry...I’m so sorry…I didn’t think…”

“It’s okay…” Q said, when the ability to speak returned. He sounded tired and winded, but Bond could see that the hives were beginning to fade on the back of his neck, and he took that as a good sign. Q rubbed at the injection site on his thigh and hissed out a wince against Bond’s shoulder. “But you know...you didn’t have to...stab me so hard…”

Bond huffed out a laugh that he didn’t quite feel, ensconcing Q in his arms with no intention of letting go. He couldn't believe he had been so stupid, so _careless_ with the one person who mattered most. 

“Hey...it’s not your fault,” Q told him, as he moved his arms round Bond. 

“I could have killed you,” Bond said. 

“But you didn’t.”

“It was a close thing.” 

Q kissed the hinge of his jaw.

“Don’t be so dramatic,” Q said. 

Bond’s shoulders slumped and he sighed as the stress of the past forty eight hours caught up with him. 

“I’m never eating peanuts again.”


	2. Sick and Alone

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Requested by [Stilinskihalefeels](http://stilinskihalefeels.tumblr.com/) who requested: For the Hurt/comfort fic meme: could you write 00Q with 2 (sick) and 5 (alone)? :)

Q pulled his cardigan more tightly around him as he shuffled into the kitchen to make tea. He sniffled miserably, his eyes barely open as he began preparing his morning beverage. The quiet of the flat was punctuated only by his sniffles and coughs and his weakly muttered swears when his fingers fumbled with the kettle and spilt water on the counter. 

He had been perfectly fine until yesterday, when he’d woken with a head cold and a dry cough. As the day progressed, the headache became worse, his nose began running, and the cough became more frequent. Round day end, when Q had been in the middle of trying to balance a hopeless budget, he fell victim to a particularly nasty fit that became so violent, it made him vomit. With that, he had been sent home with an over the counter cough medicine from Medical and strict orders to stay in bed for the next few days until he felt better.

Unfortunately, rest did not come, and Q spent the evening alternating between sweating to death and freezing. When he finally did manage a few rocky hours of sleep, he woke himself up coughing, and now Q felt so achy and exhausted that he wanted to cry. 

He finished preparing his tea, then took his cup into the bedroom and got back into bed. His eyes itched with tiredness and there was a spot just between his shoulders that ached so much that it burned. The rest of him hurt enough that even tea couldn’t soothe him, not even with the extra honey he had added. 

Q lay down on the bed and pulled the sheets and duvet over him to keep warm, but he still shivered. He would have given anything for Bond to have been there in that moment, just to hold him for a little while. But Bond was an ocean away and far too busy to come home to take care of him. 

Still, Q wanted him there, and rolled over into Bond's spot as if that would quell his loneliness. It sometimes did when Bond was away, but not this time. Q was too stuffed up to enjoy the particular scent of his lover’s aftershave on the pillowcase. Grumpily, he returned to his side of the bed, taking Bond’s pillows with him. 

He tried making a little fort of them around himself, so it felt like Bond was sleeping beside him. It took a while to get them situated, and by the end, Q was hot and sweating with the effort. He threw off the blankets and lay on his back to stare at the ceiling. It didn’t take long for the mucus in his head to drain into his throat, which made him cough and feel doubly hot and miserable. 

Rolling onto his side, Q reached for his mobile on the charging stand and brought it into bed with him, where he curled around the device as it dialed out to the only number in the address book. Despite the early hour in Peru, Bond answered halfway through the second ring.

“Q,” Bond said. 

“Hi,” Q replied nasally. 

“You finally caught it, huh?”

Q sighed and closed his eyes.

“It was only a matter of time. Everyone in Intentions came down with it a few days ago and Accounting's been short at least half the staff for over a week. You’re lucky you’re out of the country.”

“I’m sorry I’m gone. I’d be there right now if I could.”

“No, you’ve got a Peruvian drug lord to take care of.”

“I’d rather be taking care of you.”

Bond sounded so sincere that Q wanted to cry. He blamed it on the fever.

“It’s better you’re not here,” Q told him, and sniffled as he reached for a tissue on the bedside. “I’m a right mess.” 

“Be sure to drink lots of fluids,” Bond said, and Q hummed in response as he dabbed at his nose, “and eat something if you can.” 

“The bread’s gone mouldy,” Q mumbled, “and the milk turned a few days ago. It’s chunky.”

“What about in the pantry?” Bond asked.

“Some pot noodles maybe…” Q replied disinterestedly. 

Bond made a sound of frustration. 

“I’ll call something in for you and have groceries delivered.”

“I’ll do it.”

“No you won’t.” 

Q pulled the blanket over his head, plunging into darkness where there was nothing but him and the sound of Bond’s voice.

“We’re almost out of honey. Can you get more honey?”

“Of course I can get more honey.”

“And some biscuits?”

“Hobnobs?”

“Yeah...like ten thousand packages.” 

Bond laughed, sounding as if he were right next to Q in the dark instead of halfway around the globe. 

“I’ll do my best.”

Q sniffed and rubbed tiredly at his eyes. 

“I miss you,” Q admitted. “I wish you were here.”

“I’ll be home soon,” Bond said.

Q pulled the blanket tighter around him. 

“Will you talk to me for a little while? Just until I fall asleep?” Q asked. 

Bond did. 

And sleep finally came.


	3. Disoriented

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For [Belle Pimprenelle](http://bellepimprenelle.tumblr.com/) who requested: For the Hurt/Comfort fic meme, can I have a 11 (disoriented) for Bond and Q, pleeeeease ? :)

When Q woke, it was dark.

He lay on his front, his cheek pressed into something so hard that it bordered on painful. But when he tried to lift his head, Q found that he couldn’t. A bloom of agony erupted in his temple, and Q bit on his lip to keep from crying out. He tasted blood and dust. He moved his fingers over the space in front of him, dragging the digits through rough pieces of debris that cut and stung.

Retracting his fingers, Q tried again to move, this time with his hips, but to no avail. There was something on top of him, pressing hard into the base of his spine and against his ribcage. Once he realised that he was trapped, Q did his very best not to panic, but between the dark and the pain and the fact that he was very much alone, he did not do very well.

A burst of static cut through the quiet, and Q turned his head toward it in the dark.

His earpiece.

Blindly, Q moved his hand round until he secured it. The body had been crushed, but when Q moved his thumb over the earbud, he believed the speaker and microphone to still be in tact. He brought it to his ear, and caught the tail end of someone saying angrily:

“ _\--Quartermaster is still unaccounted for and--_ ”

The communication cut out momentarily and then came back.

“ _\--every available--_ ”

The connection went dead again before coming back to life. Although it wasn’t the best, it was the only lifeline Q had and he desperately clung to it.

“This is Q,” he said, as clearly as he could, hoping that he kept his voice from quavering. He had started trembling, suddenly aware of how cold it was around him.

“ _Q are you--?_ ”

“In need of immediate assistance.”

“ _Hello--?_ ”

“In need of assistance,” Q repeated, a little louder. It strained his lungs and he began coughing. Whatever was on top of him shifted with the movement, pinning him further and with much more force than before. Q couldn’t stifle the sob that made its way past his throat as the weight pressed sharply into his kidney.

“ _Q--_ ”

Q cried out again, this time in relief at the sound of the voice on the other end of the comms.

“James…”

“ _\--here, Q--_ ”

He was panting now under the strain of the debris on top of him. He couldn’t get enough air, and his head spun with the lack of oxygen.

“You’ve got to...please help…James, I can’t breathe…” Q gasped, trying to pull himself out from under the object, scraping at the ground until his nails broke and started to bleed; he felt the sting of it as the skin broke with his panicked flailing.

“ _\--coming--you---see---where--?_ ”

“I can’t hear you…” Q murmured, as exhaustion settled in and stopped his struggles. He lay his head down on the ground, trying to calm himself so that he didn’t vomit or pass out. The one thing that could help him was Bond, but Q couldn’t hear him through all the static.

“ _\---hold---Q--soon--are--_ ”

Q pressed his cheek into the floor as he pushed away his physical agony and focussed instead on imagining Bond in his mind’s eye. Immediately, he came back to that morning. It was one of the rare days they had the chance to wake up at a leisurely pace, to have breakfast together. They spent it on the sofa, intertwined, with Bond reading the newspaper over Q’s shoulder as he dozed contently on Bond’s chest. It was a nice, peaceful thing to think about, to remember as the breath was slowly crushed out of him.

_James, James I love you, you know. You stupid, wonderful man. I love you more than anything._

Q wasn’t sure if he said these words out loud, or if they were a stream of barely-conscious thought as he lingered on the edge of oblivion.

But just before he could fall into that nothingness, light appeared, bright and blinding. It burned Q’s eyes, even through his closed lids.

Voices followed, then hands, the sound of machinery. He smelt latex, felt the heat of palms maneuvering him along the ground, then awkwardly up onto something stiff and uncomfortable. A softness enveloped his neck and tipped his head back a bit, just as something plastic came down over his nose and mouth. At first, Q panicked, thinking that it would keep him from breathing, but then there was air that didn’t smell like dust and dirt and blood and there was so much of it that Q couldn’t help but greedily gasp it in.

He wasn’t much aware of time, but he did know that sometimes his body felt extraordinarily light and at other times, as if he were breathing from beneath a pile of stones.

When he came to, there was no more darkness, just light all around him and a hand in his hair petting just the way he liked. Above him, someone leant into his line of sight, someone with grey blond hair and blue, _blue_ eyes.

“James…” Q breathed, as the pain spiked in his lower extremities. It drew a gasp from him, and Q felt tears involuntarily escape his eyes, run down his cheeks.

“You’re alright,” Bond said, leaning close to him to press a kiss to the corner of his right eye, his temple, his hair. “You’re going to be okay.” The pain persisted despite his care, and Q felt the world tipping a bit, but Bond’s hands kept him from slipping away. “Hey, hey, none of that. You stay with me, now. We’ve got you in triage. The doctor’s going to take good care of you.”

There were hands on him that weren’t Bond’s hands, hurting him as they moved his arms and legs, all while Bond spoke quietly in his ear. _The building collapsed. Another terrorist threat against MI6. All of the lower levels caved in. Still looking for survivors…_

Q felt the panic rise up in him again, the fear for his hands, his fingers, his legs. Bond pushed back his hair gently. They were close enough that Q could make out the dirt on his lover’s face, even with the odd angle.

“You’re okay,” Bond told him again. “Everything still where it should be, nothing missing.”

Q closed his eyes and breathed in, even though it hurt. He thought of that dark place where he had been, where he had thought he might die without ever seeing Bond again, and Q couldn’t bear being alone.

“Stay with me,” Q said, not asked, and Bond pressed a gentle kiss to his brow.

“I’m not going anywhere, love.”


	4. Fight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For [e3w](http://e3w.tumblr.com/) who requested "#6 (fight) Bond & Q please. I could ask for all #'s and that would be so terrible of me. Love your writing. Thanks much." 
> 
> Here’s #6 for you, dear. This one gave me some trouble (more H than C) so I hope it’s everything you were hoping for!

Looking back, Bond should have known better than to say it. 

But in that moment, Bond hadn’t been thinking clearly, and he had uttered the words without realising their consequences:

“You work too much.” 

He hadn’t said it playfully, as in his usual you-work-too-much-darling-now-come-back-to-bed-and-let’s-make-love-all-day sort of way and he hadn’t said it out of concern followed by the offer to rub Q’s shoulders like he usually did when his lover looked tense from a long day.

That time, Bond had said it accusingly, with the insinuation that Q cared more about work than he did about their relationship, than about being home in time for dinner. The cold remains of their meal sat ruined on the table, but Q wasn’t looking at it, he was looking at Bond with a severity that Bond knew he reserved for particularly troublesome board members and wayward agents

“Excuse me?” Q replied, expression stony. “What exactly does that mean?”

“Nothing,” Bond said, picking up his plate as he went into the kitchen.

“It obviously means something, or you wouldn’t have said it.”

Bond dropped the plate into the sink, where it shattered and scattered peas and rice everywhere. 

“If you’re angry, say something. Don’t take it out on the tableware,” Q said from the doorway.

Bond turned on the tap, ignoring him. 

“Look, I said I was sorry,” Q continued, “and I am sorry about dinner. I had my coat on and everything. I was just walking out the door when 004 radioed in and needed help. What did you want me to do? Just abandon her? So I could go home and have dinner?”

“You could have called,” Bond said, watching as the water turned the remains of the meal to mush in the sink, “or messaged. Thirty seconds is all I ask for.” 

“And in those thirty seconds, 004 could have died in at least sixteen possible ways,” Q replied. “I’m sorry dinner was ruined, I really am, but the life of an agent and the protection of British interests trumps that.” 

Bond knew that he was right, but he was still angry. Everything they ever planned never went through. Even their lazy days off were ruined by an urgent call, and Q never even hesitated before dashing back to work. 

“It’s always something,” Bond said, turning off the tap.

“I’d do the same for you. For any agent. It’s my job. And my job doesn’t have regular working hours,” Q replied. “You know that, so stop trying to make me feel guilty. I feel bad enough as it is.”

“It’s our anniversary,” Bond reminded him, turning to face Q for the first time since he’d entered the kitchen. 

Q crossed his arms and regarded Bond. 

“Yes it is,” he said, “but remember last year? Where were you on our anniversary? Oh, that’s right, you were in Morocco on assignment, seducing the wife of an oil giant. But did you hear me complaining then?”

“I hear you complaining now.”

“I understand what the job is, James. You were on a mission. I was alone. Did I make you feel guilty about it? No. I’m bringing it up now because you need to understand that you’re being a hypocrite.”

“A hypocrite?”

“Yes, a hypocrite. You’re gone nearly eight months out of the year, sometimes more than that. I’m almost always alone while you’re blowing up embassies and shagging other people’s wives, but you don’t see me accusing you of any of it. You love it, you’re good at it. I’m not going to tell you that you work too much. I’m not going to make you choose. But that’s what you’re doing to me. You’re telling me I have to choose.” 

Bond pushed past Q into the living room. 

“And now you’re just walking away, because heaven help us if we should have a disagreement.”

He went into the foyer and shoved his feet into his shoes, grabbing his coat off the rack as he did so.

“This is ridiculous, James. Where are you going?” 

Bond didn’t answer, grabbed his keys, and left, slamming the door behind him. For three blocks, he stewed in his own anger, but by the fourth, the adrenalin left him. By the sixth, he realised he had just made a total arse of himself. Of course he understood what Q meant, it just hurt that Bond had been let down tonight of all nights. 

But then Bond thought about the past six months, how every time he and Q planned something--a dinner date, a film, a theatre show, a gallery exhibit--Bond had gone back on his word. He had been away, or he had just gotten back from assignment and been too tired to fulfill his promises. Constantly, he had let Q down, but the other man had never said anything about it, never verbalised his disappointment. 

Bond leaned against a lamppost immediately felt ten times guiltier for his behaviour. They both loved their jobs and they both loved each other, and they both knew that when the call came, their duty came first, their relationship second. 

Traitorously, Bond wondered what the day would be like when they no longer had to put the work first. 

But that was just a fantasy.

“Dammit,” Bond swore, as he shoved his hands back into his pockets and turned round to walk back to the flat. 

When he arrived, Bond quietly closed the door, removed his coat and shoes, and went into the living room. The light was still on in the kitchen and the table had been cleared of their failed attempt at a romantic dinner. Q was at the sink, tackling sudsy dishes with a vigour Bond knew had been born out of two parts anger, one part frustration. Broken pieces of porcelain were stacked up on the counter beside him. He didn’t look up when Bond entered.

“I’m sorry,” Bond said. 

Q didn’t acknowledge him. Bond could see that his eyes were red, as if he had cried, and that hurt more than his own wounded pride. 

“I’m sorry,” Bond said again, as he went to Q and moved behind him, putting his arms round his slim waist. 

Q turned off the water and stared at the dirty dishes in the sink for a long time. Then he leant back into Bond’s arms with a sigh.

“I’m sorry, too.”


	5. Anxiety

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The lovely [rawr-balrog](http://rawr-balrog.tumblr.com/) prompted me "For your prompt meme, 26! (and 00q who are we kidding.) Alternately, if there’s a particular one you are dying to write, I request that one."
> 
> #26 - Anxiety. As I told rawr_balrog, this is more anxiety-bordering-upon-panic, so I hope that it’ll do :) Also, I’m not someone who takes anti-anxiety medication on a regular basis, so this story is from my own experience and does not reflect the way everyone will react to prescriptions. But if you’re anything like me, you like to sleep and cuddle and say things that you will most definitely not remember when you wake up!

When this was over, Q was absolutely without a doubt going to kill Bond. 

“I hate you,” Q said, as if Bond hadn’t heard him the first ten times.

“Just breathe. You’re fine,” Bond told him, even though Q was obviously very much not fine. How could he be when he could barely breathe and couldn’t stop shaking? And all because the walls were definitely closing in on him, smothering him in the already too-small space, and if that wasn’t bad enough they were over 40,000 feet in the air. 

They were going to fall. 

The plan was going to crash. 

They were going to die.

“Q, breathe,” Bond reminded him. 

And Q was going to breathe, he honestly had intended to, but then the plane shook and dropped and Q forgot all about it. His heart raced in his chest, beating so quickly that it almost hurt, only adding to the sick churn of nausea in his stomach. So not only were they going to fall and crash and die, he was also going to vomit.

It was all Bond’s fault.

“It’s fine. It’s just a bit of turbulence,” Bond assured him. 

Q dug his fingernails so hard into the armrests that he felt his heartbeat in the tip of each digit. He closed his eyes and tried to think of something nice, like the beach that he and Bond would soon be on for the next two weeks while they were on holiday. 

But then the plane shook again and Q could only see the wreckage of their plane, on fire as it sunk into a stormy sea strewn with charred bodies. 

“I think I’m going to be sick,” Q managed to get out, and Bond produced an airsickness bag immediately. 

Although nauseated beyond belief from the motion of the plane and crippling anxiety, Q somehow retained his dignity by resisting the compulsion to retch. Instead, he used the bag to help calm his breathing. It took some time, but between Bond’s hand rubbing his back and the steadiness of the plane, Q succeeded. 

“We just had to fly during this weather, didn’t we?” Q mumbled. He was still shaking and now slightly damp with sweat, but the worst of it seemed to have passed. Either that, or the double dose of anti-anxiety medication had finally started to kick in. 

“I thought we’d make it out before it hit,” Bond admitted, still rubbing at Q’s back. It was rhythmic and soothing; Q closed his eyes, trying to pretend they were anywhere else in the world but on an aeroplane. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know you hated flying this much.” 

“s’horrible,” Q said, and leant back in the seat, turning his cheek to rest on Bond’s shoulder. He wanted to continue on about how much he hated flying--the claustrophobia, the probability of mechanical failure, the terrible quality of the recycled air--but his tongue felt thick and heavy. The plane shook a bit, but it felt distant, like it was happening to someone else entirely; someone that Q couldn’t be arsed to care about in that moment.

Oh, yes. Definitely the medication. He was more grateful than ever that he had been able to keep those pills down, especially as the plane dropped as they hit a thick mass of dark clouds. Instead of panicking, Q huffed out a laugh, his head lolling with the motion of the craft. Bond placed a hand on the back of his neck and held him steady, worrying gentle circles at the base of Q’s spine.

“Christ, Q. How much did you take?”

Q hummed at Bond’s touch and leant into him again. He was only vaguely aware of Bond moving the armrest up so that they could be closer, the warmth of a scratchy airline blanket falling over his shoulders as Bond situated him more comfortably in the first class seats. Through the haze of a medicated calm, Q recognised the feeling of safety in Bond’s arms, the comforting scent of his aftershave, the smooth silk of his shirt. Q rubbed his cheek against the fabric, liking the feel of it against his skin so much that he didn’t care what the attendants might think of his behaviour.

“I like this shirt,” Q said, burying his face in it. “It’s soft as kittens...”

“Remind me to never let you self-medicate again.”


	6. Drunk and Sprained

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the anon who requested: "H/C meme, 00Q, with # 3 (drunk) and # 10(sprain)! Oh, the possibilities!"

The moment Q stepped into his office, he knew he wasn’t alone. 

The lights were off, which is not how he had left his office when he had stepped out twenty minutes prior. Seeing the office not in the way he had left it gave him an uneasy feeling that he couldn’t explain. The hairs on the back of his neck went up; he didn’t have to be a trained operative to know that someone was watching him out of the darkness. Unsure of what to do--to fight or flee--Q lingered in the doorway for a moment as he weighed his odds.

Until a voice said:

“It’s not like you to be so indecisive, Quartermaster.”

Q flipped on the light. 

James Bond sat on the sofa tucked in the corner of the room. His suit hung in burnt tatters off his frame and his unwashed face was dirty with grit and blood. 

“You look like hell,” Q said, as he came inside. “Should I ask why you’re haunting my office and not in Medical where you belong?”

“I’m fine,” Bond said.

“You need medical attention.”

Bond held up a bottle of Jack Daniels in lieu of reply. Q slammed the door to his office closed at the sight of it; Bond cringed away from the noise. Obviously, he had been drinking a while if he already had such sensitivity. 

“This is getting ridiculous, Bond. You can’t keep doing this and expect me to remain quiet,” Q said. It was the fourth time in two months that Bond had come back from a mission injured and refusing medical care, choosing to lick his wounds and drink himself into a near coma on Q’s sleeper sofa. The first time, Q had felt sorry for him. The second time, too. But by the third, Q saw it becoming a habit and now, he knew it was going to be a difficult one to break. 

“Do what?” Bond asked, squinting at Q as he approached. With Bond inebriated, Q easily got the bottle away from him, which he set far out of the agent’s reach. 

“You can’t keep getting drunk to deal with your problems,” Q replied, looking at Bond’s pathetic form, “or your injuries. You need to handle things like an adult.”

“Says the person who looks like they’re still at uni.”

“I can and will make your life miserable, Bond, so you might want to shut up.”

Surprisingly, he did. 

“Good, now, anything serious that I need to know about? I didn’t go to med school, you know, so if you have a bullet wound, it’s just going to rot,” Q said, as he went to his desk to fetch the medical kit he had stashed in the bottom drawer.

“Fine,” Bond grunted, as he leant back against the arm of the sofa. 

Q dragged his chair closer so that he could take a look at Bond, pointedly focusing on the task at hand instead of the distracting figure before him. To keep his thoughts from straying to dangerous territory, Q began poking and prodding with no pretense of gentleness. 

“You’re horrible at this,” Bond complained.

“If you don’t like it, go to Medical,” Q responded, “I don’t get paid enough to deal with your childishness.” 

Once again, Bond quieted, allowing Q to clean up the worst of his injuries. Surprisingly, there was a lot of blood for very little wound, but the worst of it seemed to be Bond’s right hand, which had gone black and blue and swollen in the shape of a boot print. Fortunately not broken, but a damn good sprain if he’d ever seen one.

“You’re supposed to shoot them before they can get to you,” Q reminded him.

“Lost my gun,” Bond said with a grin.

“Of course you did,” Q answered dryly, as he wrapped up Bond’s hand and wrist. “You’re lucky he didn’t break your arm.”

“She couldn’t have even if she tried.”

“Well, she did a number on you. Well-deserved, I’m sure.”

Q closed the medical box and was just about to rise when Bond said:

“Q.”

“Bond.”

“Thank you.” 

The words seemed somehow out of place coming from James Bond, but when Q looked at the agent, he saw nothing but sincerity in his eyes. His very blue eyes. 

The heat of a blush crawled up the back of Q’s neck when he realised he had been openly admiring the other man. After almost a year working with him, Q had learnt how to keep his attraction to himself, how not to rise to Bond’s flirting and teasing. But in moments like this--when he seemed so real and honest and raw, not 007 but Bond--Q almost forgot himself. Quickly, he dropped his eyes and said:

“You’re welcome.”

He was just about to get up when Bond reached out to him, the fingers of his left hand looping around Q’s wrist gently. It was strange, Q thought, that a man who could kill a man with his little finger could have such a soft touch. The tenderness of it, the heat of Bond’s hand, the way that the man looked up at him through his lashes, all of it sent Q’s heart racing. He didn’t doubt that Bond could feel the pulse in Q’s wrist thrumming against his fingertips. 

“Q,” Bond said, leaning closer, until they were nearly nose to nose. Q smelt the whisky on his breath, the remnants of blood and smoke on his clothes and skin, but he was more focused on the way Bond’s pupils overtook his irises, plunging the blue into darkness. Q knew what that meant and he knew that it was very wrong because Bond was drunk and Q would be taking advantage of that, of his position, of their entire relationship...but Bond’s hand felt so warm and he looked open and hopeful in a way that Q had never seen before, as if he were seeing the true Bond behind the swagger and flirting and stupid one-liners. 

And when Bond kissed him, Q kissed back.


	7. Q Gives In

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For [Beaubete](http://archiveofourown.org/users/beaubete) who requested “00Q of course; the moment Q finally gives in. Feel free to interpret however you like!” 
> 
> So I’m concerned that I didn’t actually do this one justice because I didn’t want to go with the usual route of Bond asking/pining for Q to take him out to dinner and I didn’t want to do another one where Q finally gives in to having sex with Bond after XYZ happens. Those are all my favourite tropes, don’t get me wrong, but I wanted to do something different! So I took slight liberties and sort of went with a kink that I adore. I hope you enjoy!

Looking back, Q probably shouldn’t have offered Bond half the wardrobe, because then he never would have seen it and then perhaps Q’s life wouldn’t have taken so much of a turn. But once the damage had been done, it was done. Now, it seemed it was all Bond could talk about, think about, and if Q wasn’t mistaken, he’d say that it had consumed Bond entirely. But what had been the back and forth at their flat had moved to the office, and Q was about twenty seconds away from banning Bond from TSS if he didn’t go away.

“Bond, you’re hovering.” 

“Why don’t you wear it?” 

“Bond, honestly, I’m working.”

“You’re always working.”

“And you’re always whining.”

“I do not.”

Q looked up at Bond, lifting the headset’s magnifying glass as he did so. 

“You are now,” Q said, setting his soldering iron down.

Bond sat in the chair across from him, trying for an expression that fell two shades too shy of true contrition. 

“Don’t give me that look,” Q warned him. 

“You should wear it.”

Q flipped the visor down and went back to his project.

“For me,” Bond said. 

“No.” 

“Please?”

“I already told you, no.”

“Q, what’s the point of having a bespoke suit if you’re never going to wear it?”

“Weddings and funerals are enough for me. We can’t all be you,” Q said, glancing at Bond’s Westwood. He certainly liked looking at other men wearing suits, but preferred not to himself. 

“That’s the weakest excuse I’ve ever heard.”

“Weak or not, that’s my reason.”

“So you wouldn’t wear it for me?”

“Not when you keep pestering me like a child.”

“You’re the one being a child.”

“If you’re going to continue on like this, you can go elsewhere.”

“Q--”

“Out.”

Bond stood up and slinked away, properly scolded, but when Q glanced out of the corner of his eye, he saw his lover smiling. Q felt his stomach drop, because he knew that smile.

James Bond smelt a challenge, and he wasn’t going to rest until he won.

**00Q00Q00Q**

Q held out adamantly, of course. 

Bond tried to woo him, at first, with the usual gestures of love and affection: flowers and chocolates. Q displayed the flowers in his office and ate the chocolate and felt absolutely no guilt when Bond gave him adorable puppy eyes at the end of the day. 

“It’s not going to happen,” Q told him.

He almost buckled when Bond brought him home and made him a nice dinner, then spent the evening rubbing his feet while they lounged on the couch. It was very nice, Q conceded, and lavished Bond with affection that evening to reward him. 

“So…” Bond began, when they were through, bare and still slightly damp from the exertion.

“The answer is still no,” Q said, and kissed his cheek before rolling over to turn out the light. “Good night.” 

Q 1; Bond 0.

**00Q00Q00Q**

After the usual wooing rituals failed, Bond moved on to tactics a bit more underhanded. It took a few days for Q to get wind of it: a sudden request for inspection from the PM’s office and M’s requirements that all department heads dress for the occasion. Q didn’t even bother to investigate, knowing the person who had somehow pulled the strings. Just to be obstinate, Q choose to wear his usual trousers and a blazer that didn’t entirely clash with the rest of him. The inspectors popped in for only a moment--seeming confused themselves on why they were even there--before leaving as quickly as they came. 

“You’ll have to do better than that,” Q said, when he passed Bond loitering in the corridor outside the break room. 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Bond replied smoothly, and left, probably to concoct some other scheme. 

**00Q00Q00Q**

After another failed effort to force Q into the suit, Bond went back to wooing and seducing, because that was what he was better at doing. He was a little more persistent this time, however, with his attentions less passive and much more proactive. Q had to finagle his way out of ballroom dancing lessons (though the Russians were partially to blame for that one) and suffer--not once, but twice--the stares of an entire restaurant of well-dressed people judging his cardigan and chequered trousers.

But still, Q refused, even when Bond switched gears entirely and tried begging. Q had to admit that there was something infinitely satisfying about seeing James Bond--a man who could kill someone with his little finger--on his knees and begging for it.

Even then, Q did not give in. 

“Why won’t you wear it?” Bond asked, sighing as he draped his arm over Q’s waist. “Not even for me.” 

“Because it’s only for special occasions.”

“I forgot. Weddings and funerals. How dull.”

“Those aren’t the only occasions there are, those are just the ones I’ve had the misfortune of attending in that suit.”

“Oh?” Bond sounded curious now, and Q knew that was because he had finally given it away.

The one thing that would make him give in. 

“I’ll let you think about it,” Q told him.

“Oh, I will.” 

**00Q00Q00Q**

Bond went away for a few weeks to deal with an insurgency group in the Middle East. When he returned, he was tanned and remarkably whole and had two tickets to a fundraiser at the National Gallery. 

“What’s this?” Q asked, when Bond handed the tickets over. 

“A special occasion,” Bond replied. 

Bond stood on the other side of his desk, his expression stoic and unreadable, but Q knew his stance anywhere: the straight line of his shoulders, the way his body leant forward in anticipation. He had James Bond hanging on the edge, waiting anxiously, hopefully, and Q decided that it was time he put his lover out of his misery.

“I suppose I’ll have to wear my best suit.”

Bond’s smile was as appreciatory as his kiss. 

“I am sincerely looking forward to it.”

**Bonus00Q**

Q straightened the collar of his shirt, then smoothed down the lapels of his dinner jacket so that the sharp lines fell appropriately across his frame. When he buttoned the garment closed, it tucked at his waist, the perfect cinch to highlight the slenderness there. Q knew that Bond appreciated it when he met his lover’s heated gaze in their bathroom mirror.

“See something you like?” Q asked, as he adjusted his tie. 

“Very much,” Bond breathed, stepping closer, until Q could feel the heat of the other man against his back. “It’s a crime you don’t wear this more often.”

“Just special occasions,” Q reminded him.

“Then I will have to think of many more special occasions, if it means I get to see you like this,” Bond said, brushing his lips against the side of Q’s neck, not quite kissing, but enough that Q felt his knees go a bit weak. 

“Now, now, Mr. Bond. It sounds like you’d rather spend the night getting me out of this suit than enjoying me in it,” Q replied.

“Oh, no. I intend to thoroughly enjoy you in it,” Bond promised, breath hot against the shell of Q’s ear. “I’ll enjoy having you on my arm all night with everyone looking and wanting, but knowing that you’re mine. And then, when we come home…”

He met Bond’s eyes in the mirror and the hungry desire he saw there ignited a warm ache of arousal in Q’s belly.

“When we come home?” Q prompted.

Bond’s smile was wicked.

“Patience, as you’ve taught me, dear, is a virtue.”


	8. Antiquarian Bookstore AU

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Requested by [rawr-balrog](http://www.rawr-balrog.tumblr.com) who knows that I went to school for this stuff. She wanted to see a 00Q antiquarian bookstore AU with Bond as the patron and Q as the bookstore employee. Because this is my area of expertise…I fear that this got a bit more technical than some might like... But I hope that this satisfies, especially after the rough time you’ve been having lately~ Sequel if you desire it! Your wish is my command~ Enjoy!

The books had been left to him, remnants from the old house in Scotland, and Bond honestly wanted nothing to do with them. They were the old leather bound things that his father had collected for status, to fill the empty shelves in the library he rarely visited. Even Bond’s mother had seldom used the place, preferring her diversions in the penny romances she picked up in town rather than the dusty old volumes lining the walls. Bond had not been much fond of them either, choosing to play out of doors instead, and by the time he had grown and might have had some appreciation for them, he was out of Eton and in the Navy, with little time for reading.

But the house had finally been sold after years of abandonment and the gamekeeper, Kincade, had boxed up a few things that he said _would have been a crime to sell_ with the property. These few items he put into a parcel and shipped to London, which arrived on Bond’s doorstep by courier on a dreary Tuesday afternoon. 

It was within this box that Bond discovered the books, the same ones that he had never spared a glance at as a child. They were just as old and ugly as he remembered, and when Bond pulled them out one by one, he smelt the damp and dank of the old house acutely. 

The spines were too worn to read any title, though the remainder of gilt letters still lingered in some places. Opening the topmost volume, Bond flipped to the first page, where he found a gorgeous floral image atop a page filled with flowing Latin words. The title (or what he assumed was the title) read _Illvstri et Generoso_ in large letters, which meant very little to him after failing his few courses at Eton. But what was most beautiful about the page was the large, ornate letter that began the first word. He had never seen the letter _Q_ portrayed with such artistry before.

Bond stared at the page for a long time, then continued through the book, letting his eyes roam over the ancient words, some familiar, some not, and the beautiful images of flora and fauna. He became aware of how much time had passed only when he realised that the light had gone from the windows outside and it had become too dark to see properly. 

Closing the book, Bond stacked them on the table next to the other few items from the old house. They were beautiful, yes, but he had no emotional attachment to them. They were just things from a past life that he no longer remembered well enough to want to forget.

Still, Bond thought, they were exceptional. So exceptional, in fact, that they might be worth something. With the way his freelance work was lacking, a little extra income wouldn’t hurt…

So the next morning, Bond searched online for antiquarian bookstores in the area, ones that might be able to perform an appraisal of the volumes. He found one by the name of Peter Harrington of London that was not far from his flat. When he contacted the shop, he spoke to an older gentleman by the name of Boothroyd, who invited him to come round the following day when they had a professional at their Chelsea location. 

“He’s one of the best,” Mr. Boothroyd assured him as they set up an appointment, “and I believe he will be most excited to look at your collection.”

“And what is his name?” Bond asked, pen poised and ready beneath the scribbled address and time.

“He goes by Q,” said the man.

“Queue?” Bond repeated.

“Like the letter, yes.”

“What sort of name is Q?” 

“It’s a nickname, I suppose. He prefers it to his real name. Best not bring it up. I think it’s a touchy subject.”

Bond frowned, not sure how he felt about someone who only went by a letter looking at the volumes. 

“And he’s the best?”

“The very best. Oxford Fellow, you know.”

Bond left it at that, took down the prices before saying his goodbyes, and tried not second guess his decision on selecting this particular store. 

Despite this, Bond went to Fulham Road the next day by taxi with his box of old books, and was met by a grandfatherly looking gent at the door.

“Ah, you must be Mr. Bond. Perfect. Right on time,” he said, as he held open the door for Bond and his large parcel. 

The interior of the place was nothing like Bond expected. He thought it might be a dark, dreary place that smelt badly of dust and mould, but it was quite open and bright, with few windows but good lighting. The air felt dry and a tad cold, but there did not seem to be any scents aside from the crisp smell of bookstore paper. 

“Temperature controlled,” explained the man, as if he could tell just from Bond’s expression what he was thinking. “We wouldn’t want our treasures damaged.” 

“Of course not,” Bond agreed.

“I’m Geoffrey Boothroyd. We spoke on the phone,” he continued, as he led Bond past the front desk area and through a labyrinth of rooms filled with glass enclosed cases and displays. Boothroyd gave him a short tour of the place and then led him to a small working space in a room closed off to regular patrons. There were a few projects laid out, along with tools that Bond had never seen before, all related to books or binding in some way. 

“Q should be in momentarily. I’ll send him your way when he arrives,” said Boothroyd, and Bond put his box down on the empty part of the table to shake his hand.

“Thank you,” Bond said.

Not even a few moments after he left, a man appeared, seemingly out of breath. His dark hair was wind tousled and his cheeks pink from the cold, but his eyes were bright, bright green behind his thick rimmed glasses.

“Hope you haven’t been waiting long. So sorry. The Tube was a nightmare,” the man said, as he slid out of his coat and hung it on a rack near the door, then tugged off his muffler and draped it there as well. He wore a maroon cardigan unbuttoned over a blue pullover and collared shirt. With his black frames and patterned trousers, he certainly fit the bill of the bookish sort, but he was so strikingly young that Bond had to keep himself from gaping openly.

“You’re Q?” Bond asked.

“At your service,” said the man with an unoffended smile as he held out his hand to Bond. “Ah, you were picturing someone a bit older?” Q continued, and when Bond didn’t say anything, he laughed. “Don’t worry, I get that all the time.” 

Out of ingrained politeness more than anything, Bond took his hand and shook it. Q’s fingers were pale and cool against his palm.

“And you are?” Q asked.

“Bond. James Bond,” he answered.

“It’s nice to meet you, Bond, James Bond,” said Q, and Bond couldn’t help but smirk at the cheek. He always liked the clever ones best, gender irrelevant so long as they clicked. And Bond felt it in the way that Q smiled back at him, the way their fingers lingered much longer than socially appropriate.

“So,” Q said, clearing his throat as he withdrew his hand, “what do you have for me today?”

“To be honest, I’m not sure,” Bond answered.

“Inheritance?”

“How did you guess?”

“We get two types: those who know exactly what they have and what they want, and those who have no idea. Usually in the case of the latter, it was a gift or an inheritance,” Q replied, and then arranged his expression into something apologetic. “Condolences.”

“It’s nothing, not even recent,” Bond answered, waving away his sympathy. 

“Right then,” Q said, skipping past the awkwardness before it could settle. Bond like of him increased tenfold. “So a general appraisal then?”

“If you could.”

“Of course. I assume you’ve made all the proper arrangements with Mr. Boothroyd?”

“Indeed,” Bond answered, and Q nodded.

“And would you like to stay or come back at a later time?”

Bond couldn’t help but let his gaze roam appreciatively along Q’s body. Young, yes, and probably very handsome if Bond could get him out of his drabby attire. Q caught him looking and glanced away. He wasn’t blushing, but the tips of his ears had gone a bit red, and Bond thought him exponentially more endearing.

“I think I’d like to stay,” Bond said.

“Right, then. Let’s see what we have here.”

Q pulled on a pair of cloth gloves and removed one of the books from the box with both hands. 

“What I’m going to do is look at the case first, then the binding,” Q explained, as he laid the book down on the table and began observing it. He didn’t touch so much as look and make appreciative noises the entire time. “It’s in remarkable condition for its age.”

“How old do you think it is?” 

“I’d say mid-1500s, but I’ll be able to give you a more accurate date once I look inside.” 

“How long have you been doing this?”

“Oh...for a while now, I guess,” Q replied, as he pulled over an angled block. “Maybe seven years?”

Bond cast a doubtful look at Q, who looked barely out of university.

“I’m nearly thirty, I’ll have you know,” Q said, as he situated the book on the block. “I studied modern languages and history here in London, then went for a Master’s in archival science and rare book librarianship in Edinburgh. Just got my PhD a year ago from Oxford in medieval manuscripts and incunabula.”

Bond honestly had no idea what half of those things entailed, and it must have shown because Q laughed, that clear, lovely laugh and said:

“It means I know a lot about books.”

“Right,” Bond said.

“And what do you do, Mr. Bond?”

“James, please.”

“James.”

“Freelance work, mostly.”

“In what?”

“Anything, really. Advertising, graphic design, programming.”

“A man of many talents,” Q said, with something in his tone that came across appreciatory.

Their eyes met briefly and Bond thought he saw desire there, but Q quickly glanced away and went back to the book. He opened it with care, resting a gentle weight to hold the pages down on the front end while he inspected the paper and binding. It was only once he had made it past the first few pages and to the title page that Q spoke.

“Fantastic,” he breathed out.

“What is?”

“This is a Christoph Froschauer work. He was the first printer in Zürich. Learnt the trade elsewhere, came to Zürich in 1515 and set up shop there. Very famous for printing the works of Erasmus von Rotterdam, among others.”

Q said these facts one after another, but Bond could tell they were recitation. His true focus was on the book; everything else was secondary. 

“This one’s dated 1551, so I was close,” Q said, as he picked up a magnifying glass and began looking along the bottom of the page. 

“I’d say spot on,” Bond said, catching Q’s smile before he could hide it. 

“This is a very rare item. I’ve never seen one of these in person before. I’m familiar with Froschauer, of course, but I’ve only seen one of his first editions, the Zürich Bible, when I had the fortune of interning briefly in Switzerland. Not only is his name here, but you can also tell by this symbol, which was used only by him--” Q indicated a small symbol in the lower right hand corner, “and there’s also the paper. He had his own printing press _and_ made his own paper on the Limmat, which has the markers of his work here and here.” Q explained, making a motion with his finger across the page. If Bond squinted, he could just make out what appeared to be lines in the paper. “These chain lines changed over time, when his nephew took over the press and factory after he died in fifteen sixty...something. Sixty-three, sixty-four, perhaps.” 

Q lifted the weight and turned a few pages, until he came upon the first illustration of a large peacock. 

“This is the first time I’ve seen one of his zoological codices. These woodcuts are stunning,” Q said, the excitement in him nearly palpable. “Each one was hand carved, then applied to the blank page of text. See, you can see the guidelines here to indicate where the top and bottom should line up. Then after the image was applied, it was hand-coloured. So, really, this is less of a book and more of a work of art.”

“Do books always animate you this way?” Bond had to ask.

“Always,” Q replied, smiling widely as he went back to looking at the detailed peacock feathers. 

His passion was infectious and Bond couldn’t help smiling, couldn’t help wanting to get to know him better to see what else brought similar elation. The rest of the session passed in relative quiet, with Q breaking the silence only to blurt out excited facts or observations while Bond watched him, content to take in the flutter of his fingers and eyelashes, the parting of his lips. 

So captivated by him, Bond did not realise forty-five minutes had passed until Q closed the last book and turned to face him.

“Your recommendation?” Bond asked, once Q had finished with all the volumes. 

“As you know, I can’t give you a figure. It would be inappropriate,” Q said carefully.

“Of course. Just your opinion.”

“Well, if you would like to part with them, I would recommend an auction house, such as Sotheby’s, or, if you’re amenable, donating to a heritage institution, such as the British Library and Museum. Many students would benefit by having access to these, or at least having access to a digital reproduction of them.” 

“But?” Bond prompted.

“But what?” Q asked, confused.

“You sound like you want to say something else.”

Q coloured.

“It’s just that, they are lovely. Wouldn’t you want to keep them? If they’ve been in your family, certainly there is some sentimental value or a desire to pass them on?”

“No one to pass them on to.”

“I see,” Q said, and turned back to the books, which he began carefully returning to the box. “Well, it’s your decision in the end. I hope the appraisal was helpful?”

“Very,” Bond replied.

Q glanced at him somewhat coyly over the rims of his glasses, and Bond felt his breath catch. It had been a very long time since someone had looked at him that way, someone truly interesting and intelligent and _gorgeous._

“Q?”

“Yes?”

“Would you like to go out for coffee sometime?”

“Coffee?”

Q tilted his head slightly and Bond felt a nervous tremble in his chest at the gesture, as if Q were trying to think of a polite way to turn him down.

“I don’t actually like coffee. More of a tea drinker myself,” Q said, then paused as realisation crept up in his expression, grin catching the corners of his mouth. “Wait, are you asking me out?”

“Yes.”

“Me?”

“Yes. If you’re not, that is, if you’re single and, er, interested?”

“Oh, yes, of course. Yes, and yes. Very single and,” Q looked Bond up and down, “ _interested._ ”

Bond smirked and Q did too.

He had a feeling this would be the start of something very interesting indeed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those who are interested: 
> 
> This is the book I was referring to ---> [here](http://www.abebooks.com/servlet/BookDetailsPL?bi=7248498753&searchurl=bi%3D0%26amp%3Bbx%3Doff%26amp%3Bds%3D30%26amp%3Bfe%3Don%26amp%3Bkn%3Dchurch%26amp%3Bn%3D200000169%26amp%3Bprl%3D10.00%26amp%3Brecentlyadded%3Dall%26amp%3Bsortby%3D1%26amp%3Bsts%3Dt%26amp%3Bx%3D0%26amp%3By%3D0%26amp%3Byrh%3D1800)
> 
> More about Christoph Froschauer ---> [here](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Christoph_Froschauer)
> 
> The Zurich Bible ---> [here](http://sites.lib.byu.edu/worldhistory/renaissance/collection-highlights/reformers/zwingli/)


	9. Meet the Parents

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the anon who prompted: _00Q, a meet the parents/siblings sort of business (bondlock or not, i dont really care), and i dont want it completely fluffy, but i wouldn’t want any angst (i read too much of it really) hmmmm you can do a holiday type piece or maybe q and bond finally got serious enough for bond to request possibly meeting the family, so yeah, thanks!_
> 
> So I got a little creative here, because I thought there were too many cute Christmas Bondlock fics and already too many wonderful 00Q Christmas fics (with the odd Hanukkah one thrown in here and there) so I went a different route. Hope you enjoy, anon!

“You want to meet my family?” Q asked.

“Well, yes,” Bond replied, feeling a bit uncomfortable.

He had told himself, as he had told himself the years previously, that he wouldn’t ask. But it was a week until Christmas and Six was slow for once and Bond wasn’t on a mission, so he thought _maybe_ it would be the perfect opportunity to bring it up with Q, who hadn’t been home to see his family in all the time Bond had known him. But apparently, it had been the wrong thing to ask, because Q was looking at him suspiciously when he asked:

“Why?”

“Why not?”

“It’s just. You never, you know, asked before.”

“I know, but don’t you think...it might be time? We’ve been together almost four years now and I’ve never met them…”

Q frowned at Bond as he put the last dish in the drying rack.

“There’s nothing wrong with that,” Q replied.

“You haven’t seen them in just as long,” Bond reminded him.

“Ah, I suppose you’re right. It’s been a long time.”

“Don’t you want to see them?”

“Of course, but…”

Bond watched as Q tried to busy himself by wiping down the counter, then folding the flannel into a perfect rectangle to rest over the edge of the sink. When Q started straightening their appliances on the counter, it clicked.

“You just don’t want me to meet them.”

“No, I didn’t say that,” Q said.

"Is it because I'm a man?" Bond asked.

"No, it has nothing to do with that. Believe me. My parents are very open minded."

“Then why don’t we go to see them this year? For Christmas.”

“We don’t really celebrate Christmas.”

“Hanukkah?”

“No.”

Bond cast a doubtful gaze at Q, but couldn’t rule anything out.

“Kwanzaa?” he asked.

“Not that either,” Q sighed, running his hand through his already messy hair as he left the kitchen and made for the bedroom. Bond followed. “It’s hard to explain.”

“But they do get together?” Bond asked, sitting on the edge of the bed as Q puttered about in their wardrobe. “Your family?”

“Yes.”

“Then why don’t we go?”

“And what do I tell them? That we’ve been together all this time and I’ve never told them about you? That even if I had, I could never bring you round because if we tried to plan something, you’d be out of the country performing international espionage?”

“You could leave the international espionage part out.”

“James,” Q said with a sigh, sitting down on the bed with him, “they don’t know what I do. I don’t know how to even begin to explain it to them.”

“Then don’t.”

“So lie?”

“No, just omit the truth.”

Q rolled his eyes

“That’s lying.”

“That’s what we do. It’s to protect them, you know that.”

“I know but...you don’t know my family. I can’t lie to them. Not really. They’ll know. They’ve got...a way of always knowing,” Q replied, falling backwards onto the duvet. “So maybe staying away is the best thing I can do for them.”

Bond leant back until they were side by side, then kissed Q’s temple.

“You don’t have to sacrifice seeing them for their safety.”

Q mumbled something.

“What was that?”

“They’re also a bit crazy…”

“Think about what we do for a living. We do _crazy_ before nine in the morning,” Bond said, draping his arm over Q’s waist. “What do you say? Let’s go see them.”

“I don’t think…” Q began weakly, his protests falling silent when Bond kissed him.

“C’mon. They can’t be that bad.”

Q gave him a doubtful look that made Bond hope he would not regret those words.

**00Q00Q00Q**

Q’s parents lived in a small hamlet some two hours northwest of London. The train would have been faster with the wet weather, but Q had insisted on driving, mumbling something about needing an escape route should the situation call for one.

Bond thought he was overreacting, as Quartermasters tended to do. The house was isolated, out in the middle of the woods some ten miles from the town. A low stone wall surrounded the property, only opening up to a small drive at one point: behind a cast iron fence that Bond had to open by hand.

The modest home sat at the end of a circular drive. It stood two storey with a beautiful brick facade, wrought iron balconies, and an attached greenhouse on the eastern side. Smoke billowed from several chimneys, indicating a full house.

“You grew up here?” Bond asked, as he parked behind another car in the drive.

“Yes,” Q replied, somewhat defensively.

“It’s nice,” Bond said, looking at the building, that seemed to exude warmth despite the rain and chill. “Welcoming, you know.”

“My mother’s work,” Q mumbled, and there was something about the way he said it that made Bond frown.

“The garden?” Bond asked, glancing out the window past the drive hedges, where the frost had taken over the remnants of a summer field.

“This wasn’t a good idea,” Q said, putting his hand over his eyes as if he had a headache.

“Why?”

Q turned to him and rested his forehead against Bond’s shoulder.

“I should have told you before we got here, but I don’t...it’s hard to explain.”

“What?”

“Just...we’re different. Really different. I...” Q paused, and sighed as he pulled away. “Just try to have an open mind?”

“Of course,” Bond said.

They exited the car, grabbing a few possessions and gifts from the backseat. They left the luggage in the boot-- _just in case we want to run_ , Q said--and hurried up the front steps beneath the overhanging balcony to escape the sleet. The front door was massive and made of oak, but what Bond noticed was the odd knocker: a brass crescent moon which Q took in his hand to rap three times on the door. It seemed out of place on a country estate, but Bond did not have time to comment.

A woman with a long grey plait opened the door and Bond saw the resemblance to Q immediately in the shape of her face, the colour of her eyes. The moment her gaze fell on Q, she put her hands on her hips and looked indignant, much like the scolding look Bond often received when he’d done something wrong. Now Bond knew where Q had gotten it from: this could be no one but his mother.

“Benjamin Simon Alexander Ellsworth,” she said disapprovingly, and Bond had to stifle a laugh at how Q went rigid at the use of his full name. Q hated it, Bond knew, because he thought it ridiculous to have so many first names. “You are late.”

“I’m sorry, Mum,” Q replied, sounding properly shamed. At his tone, Bond saw her visibly soften.

“Oh, let me see you,” she said, reaching out to pinch at Q’s cheeks and pet at his hair. “Four years you haven’t been by to see your mother once. And look at you! You probably haven’t had a decent meal in ages!”

Bond saw Q preparing to retort, but then his mother put her arms round him and hugged him.

“It’s so good to see you,” she said, squeezing him. When she pulled back, she looked concerned. “Oh, honey. Your chakras are all out of alignment.”

“Mum, I’m fine.”

“It must be that job of yours! So busy you can’t even come home to see your family on the solstice? Four years, Benjamin! Four years--”

“It’s nice to see you too, Mum.”

“Oh, you’re going to have to let me realign you,” she said, rubbing at Q’s shoulder worriedly.

“Of course, but can we come inside first? It’s cold.”

“Yes, yes, come in! Come in!”

She ushered them inside a narrow, brightly lit foyer, picking up two black cats out of the way as she did so. There were fairy lights and garlands strung everywhere and the house smelt heavy with herbs and spices and food. Voices came from every room--adult conversation, the laughter of children, a tinny recording of someone singing--which made the house feel even more warm and inviting than it did outside.

“And you must be James. I’ve heard so much about you,” said Q’s mum as she put down the animals, and Bond raised a questioning eyebrow at his lover.

“Already spreading the gossip, then?” he asked.

“It was more of an inquisition,” Q replied, expression strained. That must have been the long phone call that Bond had interrupted a few days previous, when Q had shooed him out of his office with an annoyed gesture and then automatically locked the door behind him.

“Oh, hush now,” she said, and held out her hand to Bond. It was then that Bond took in her attire: some sort of emerald green and gold robe that fell to the floor. Her fingers and wrists were covered in silver jewelry; round her neck hung several stones and crystals. It was rather eccentric, especially for Christmas time, but Q had asked him to keep an open mind... “I’m Agatha Ellsworth. It’s a pleasure.”

“The pleasure is all mine,” Bond answered, shifting the items in his hands to one so that he could shake her hand. She shook it, but did not release it, turning Bond’s hand over in hers. Bond struggled with the packages momentarily, wondering if perhaps a smudge of grease had been left behind from the gate.

“You never told me he was handsome, Benjamin,” Agatha said and Q went red.

“Mum--”

“Oh, and look! His lines are complementary to yours!” she continued, tracing her fingers over the lines in Bond’s palm.

“Mum, please stop it,” Q begged.

“I used to read palms,” explained Agatha, as she released Bond’s hand, “and do reiki, but that was before I was married.”

“Where is Dad, by the way?” Q asked, and Bond could tell he was trying to get them out of their awkward situation.

“Oh, in the study, perhaps. You know how he detests the noise,” said Agatha replied, leading them through the foyer and down a corridor toward what Bond took to be the kitchen. Q gave Bond a helpless look as he followed her, with her questions ringing out down the hall as they went: “Where are your bags? Aren’t you staying for a few days? You told me you were going to stay, didn’t you? I made sure to prepare your old room--”

“Mum, just--

“And be sure to honour the house deities,” Agatha continued, as if Q hadn’t spoken, “twice over since we have a guest.”

“House deities?” Bond repeated, but Agatha hooked her arm round his and patted the top of his hand.

“Go on. We’ll wait for you here,” Agatha said.

Q looked torn for a moment between his mother and Bond, but then his shoulders slumped. He gave Bond another look and mouthed _I’ll be right back_ before disappearing back down the hallway and in the direction of another room.

“Now, let’s have a good look at you,” Agatha said, when they were alone. The moment their eyes met, Bond felt his apprehension about her slip away. She was just as warm and welcoming as the house, and when she smiled, Bond saw Q there, which put him right at ease. “Ah, I see it now.”

“I’m sorry, ma’am, but see what?” Bond asked.

“The reason he chose you,” said Agatha, and she smiled, just like Q. “You balance him. It’s very hard to find that in a partner, you know.”

She made a motion with her hand over his heart, and something very warm blazed there for a fraction of a second.

“Now that’s powerful,” she murmured, still smiling, “and after all he does to deny his Gift, my my.”

“What do you mean…?”

“Oh, my. Benjamin didn’t tell you, did he? Shame on him,” said Agatha, “but then again, he’s always been this way…”

“What way?”

“In denial of his Power, of course. He couldn’t descend from the O'Conghailaigh line without having a bit of magik in him!”

“I’m sorry…” Bond said again, feeling very out of his element. “What?”

“Oh, he told you nothing at all, then?” she asked, and when Bond shook his head, she smiled. “Why, we’re witches.”

Bond blinked and thought, perhaps he’d misunderstood.

“Pagans?”

She laughed.

“Oh, you are a keeper,” Agatha said, just as Q reappeared. When Bond looked at him, he saw Q go white in realisation. But neither of them got a word in, not with Agatha already moving on to the next part of the tour. “Now, let’s introduce you to everyone.”

Feeling dazed, Bond had no other choice than to allow himself to be led away.

**00Q00Q00Q**

Agatha led Bond into the living room, which, like the foyer, had been immaculately decorated with lights and garlands. In the centre of the room stood the tree, a massive thing that stretched all the way to the ceiling. The tree had been decorated in silver and blue ribbons and held every sort of oddity imaginable: feathers and birds’ nests and berries and clear baubles filled with herbs and leaves and dried fruits.

There were five children sitting in front of the tree, making crafts on a low table. A group of adults watched on, only turning round when they heard them enter.

In rapid succession, Bond was introduced to Q’s three sisters: Cassandra, Isobel, and Alice, who Agatha made sure to explain were named after the Greek oracle, an infamous Scottish witch, and the Sorceress of Kilkenny, respectively. All three of them looked identical to Q, only with much longer hair, so when they took him into a large hug, Bond almost lost sight of him.

“We haven’t seen you in ages, little brother!” said Isobel.

“Don’t call me that!” Q grumbled.

“How is London?” asked Alice.

“Oh my, did you get married?” Cassandra asked, glancing pointedly in Bond’s direction.

“How could you not invite us?” the other two chorused.

“I’m not married!” Q said, as his sisters all cooed and pet him, much like they would a cat.

“Ah so handsome!”

“He’s perfect for you~!”

The twittering only became louder and more incomprehensible the longer Bond stood there, but a tap on his elbow diverted his attention.

“You just found out, didn’t you?”

Bond looked over at the man who had spoken. Somehow, Agatha had slipped away without him noticing to go and tend to the children, leaving Bond on his own with the stranger. He was tall and dark skinned, dressed in a bespoke suit similar to Bond’s.

“About the witch business?” the man prompted and Bond nodded. He held out his hand: “Daniel Morris. I’m Alice’s husband.”

“James Bond.”

“It’s a little disconcerting at first, but it’s true. I didn’t believe it until Alice grew wildflowers in our living room. Literally grew them right out of the floorboards. I’d never seen such a thing,” Daniel explained, observing Q amongst his sisters. “I take it Benjamin never told you?”

“No. I never even...there was no indication,” Bond struggled.

“Well, don’t blame him too much. It’s a rough path he’s taken,” Daniel said.

“What do you mean?”

“Alice told me he’s the first to deviate from the standard clan occupations and go to university. Agatha and Jonathan supported him, of course, but he ended up choosing that world over this one. It’s been rough on the family. I suppose because there aren’t many of the coven left.”

Bond didn’t know what to think of people so casually throwing around the word _witch_ and _magik_ and _coven_. He wasn’t even sure he believed it.

“And what do you think of that?” Bond found himself asking.

“Everyone has to make their own happiness,” Daniel said, then laughed. “I wouldn’t have said that years ago, but Alice has changed my mind about a lot of things. But then again, I suppose being married to a witch opens your mind to many of the things you wouldn’t have otherwise been open to.”

“Daddy, daddy!”

One of the children ran up to them, a beautiful young girl with warm skin and green eyes. She held a glass bauble in her hands; when she stopped before them, she thrust out their hands for them to see it. It levitated a few centimetres from her palms.

“I made this! Grandmamma says that the sage is for good luck!”

As Daniel knelt down to look at the craft, Bond slipped away, not believing what he had seen. But there were traces of it everywhere--the _Otherness_ that didn’t necessarily seem unwelcoming, just different--and Bond wondered if he would suddenly wake up in their flat in London, all of this just a dream.

He tried to catch Q’s eye to see if he could catch a moment with him in private, but he couldn’t manage it in the busy room. Quietly, Bond left the living room and went back into the corridor, where he met the other two husbands, Marco and Rick, who had been tending to the cooking. Bond made a weak excuse about needing the loo and the two men gave him directions on their way to the busy living area.

Bond walked down the hallway, searching for the appropriate door. The first one he pushed open led into a closet and the second, a mudroom. The third he found opened to a large library. There were books upon books lining the walls in all shapes and sizes and colours. In the centre of the room sat a commanding mahogany desk and behind it, a middle-aged bespectacled man. He put down the book he had been reading and regarded Bond carefully. There was something about his gaze that Bond found familiar; it took him far too long to realise that it was the way that Q used to observe him in their early days: not quite distrusting, but something more logical and calculating.

“I’m sorry to interrupt,” Bond said. “I--”

“You’re James Bond,” said the man, and some of the coolness left his eyes when he smiled. “Welcome, I’m Jonathan Ellsworth. I hope Agatha hasn’t been too draining.”

“No, she’s been...a wonderful hostess,” Bond replied, with some uncertainty.

“Ah, she told you, then?”

“Yes…”

“She’s never been good at subtlety, that’s for sure. And that’s what I love most about her,” said Jonathan with nothing but fondness. He waved Bond over and poured him a drink from the handsome liquor cabinet near the desk. The scotch was mature and rich upon Bond's tongue; he wondered if magik had anything to do with it. Jonathan smiled, as if he knew what Bond was thinking. For all Bond knew, he did. Uncomfortable, Bond cast his eyes elsewhere, his gaze falling upon a photograph on the desk. It was a candid shot of Jonathan, much younger, with an exquisitely youthful looking Agatha. The children were there as well, all four, with Q very young and dressed in a yellow raincoat.

Jonathan saw him looking, that much was obvious.

 

“We met a long time ago, Agatha and I," he explained. "She tried to pass as normal, if you can believe it, just so that she could be with me. But she couldn’t be untrue to herself and told me what she was. She thought I’d abandon her, but how could I? She bewitched me the moment we met and I knew in that moment that I would marry her and no one else. I always tease that she put a love spell on me.”

“Is that...possible?” Bond asked. He felt so unsure. His world had been very clearly black and white not even a few hours ago, and now he was in a realm of magik and mysticism: a place he thought did not exist outside of childish fantasy.

“Heavens no. Even if she could, she would never. None of them would,” said Jonathan. “And don’t worry, I’ve had this conversation with Daniel and Marco and Richard as well.”

“Oh,” said Bond.

“Yes, I know it’s a lot to take in. But it’s important that I ask you this question now,” he said. “Do you love Benjamin?”

“Love him…” Bond repeated. It had been four years since they had gotten together. Four very happy years. He didn’t think he’d last this long, but he had. Mandatory retirement was right around the corner, but the future did not seem as bleak so long as he had Q.

If Q would have him.

“Yes,” replied Jonathan. “You see, we never bring home the ones we’re uncertain about. Only the important ones make it this far. And since you haven’t been turned out of the house by my wife or the household deities, I take it that means you are a good match. So, do you love him?”

Bond felt the warm tingling in his chest, as he did in that brief moment in the corridor with Agatha, and it compelled him to say, with absolute certainty:

“Yes.”

Jonathan smiled.

“Then I think this will be a most celebrated solstice.”

**00Q00Q00Q**

Bond did not get a chance at a private word with Q all evening. They spent the rest of the day with the family, alternating between attending the altar and feasting. Bond was not forced to take part in the religious aspects of the day, but he was not excluded, either. Q’s sisters took turns explaining their rituals and traditions, and their husbands kept Bond supplied in a warm, buttery sort of homemade mead. It wasn’t until the hour approached midnight that the sleepy children were ushered off to bed. Daniel and Alice’s little one stayed behind to remind Agatha:

“Remember to leave out the porridge and butter.”

“Of course, dear,” Agatha replied, and shooed her off to bed after her mother and father.

Bond gave Q a bewildered glance.

“For the Tomte,” Q explained, and at Bond’s blank look, he continued: “like a Pagan Father Christmas.”

“No cookies, then?”

Q laughed.

“No cookies.”

It was quarter til one by the time they were allowed to leave the festivities downstairs and permitted to disappear into their bedroom. It was a moderate room with a warm hearth and a large, four poster queen bed. Surrounding it were handsome bookshelves laden with various reading materials. It smelt like fire and sage and cinnamon and lavender. Bond discovered the majority of those scents permeated from a small satchel hanging on the door knob. When he touched it, Q said:

“It’s to ward off bad dreams and…”

“And?” Bond prompted.

“Encourage, er, intimacy,”

Bond grinned and Q tossed a pillow playfully at him.

“Don’t even think about it. The walls have ears and eyes here,” Q said, “and maybe tongues, which is weird and something I don’t want to think about.”

Q lifted his suitcase onto the dresser and opened it, rummaging round through the clothes as Bond explored the bedroom.

“This was your room?” Bond asked.

“A long time ago,” Q answered. “It’s been remodeled.

Bond sat down on the edge of the mattress, watching as Q began disrobing for bed. He toed off his shoes and began unbuttoning his shirt.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Bond asked.

“What?”

“What do you think?”

Q’s shoulders slumped, a seemingly permanent gesture the past few days.

“How was I supposed to tell you that I’m...not normal?” Q asked.

“There’s a difference between being not normal and being a wizard,” Bond pointed out.

“I’m not a wizard,” Q said, as he hastily pulled on his pyjamas. “I’m a witch. Sort of.”

“A male witch?”

“They exist, like male nurses and male ballet dancers.”

“So what’s a wizard?”

“That’s a conversation for a different day,” Q said, as he set his glasses on the nightstand, crawled into bed, and put his back to Bond.

Bond finished with his clothes and followed him beneath the duvet, naked.

“Okay, so explain to me this whole business of being a witch,” Bond said.

“It’s complicated,” Q mumbled into the pillow.

“I’ve got time,” Bond said, kissing the back of his neck

“James, I know what you’re doing, and thank you, but we don’t have to talk about this. It’s not...a part of me. Not really. I left it behind a long time ago.”

“It’s still part of you, even if you try to pretend it isn’t,” Bond said, thinking about his childhood home, now in ashes in the moors of Scotland. “They’re your family.”

Q sighed and went quiet. At first, Bond thought he might have fallen asleep, but then Q turned round beneath his arm and snuggled against him and said:

“Males are weaker.”

“What?”

“Male witches. We’re not as powerful as females. So my sisters are vastly talented. My father is human, and I might as well be, too.”

“But you can…?”

“Do magik? Yes, some.”

“Have you ever...you know?” Bond asked.

“On you?” Q smirked.

“Yes.”

“No, of course not.”

Bond raised a brow and Q kissed the side of his mouth with a laugh

“Well, maybe a bit. Nothing bad, I promise. We can’t force people to do the things we want. That’s all up to the Fates. Altering that would make it Black Magik. We don’t do that sort of spellcraft. It’s taboo.”

“So what can you do?”

“Small things. Reminder spells, the ability to make a kettle boil faster when I want tea, some sleight of hand, those sorts of trickeries. I’m not able to grow fields of flowers or crops like Alice and I can’t heal people like Cassandra. I’m not empathetic like Isobel, so helping people is out of my ability, and I’m hopeless with most relationships, so I couldn’t be a Matchmaker like my mother…”

“Agatha’s a matchmaker?” Bond asked.

“You mean you couldn’t tell?” Q asked.

“It’s perfect for her. She should have a website.”

“She hates technology. I had to convince her to install a landline, you know.”

Q made a motion with his hand over Bond’s heart as he spoke, the warm tips of his fingers tracing over his flesh. Bond felt a tingle of something in his flesh that had nothing to do with cold or arousal and everything to do with the realisation that he knew that seemingly idle motion.

“You do that all the time,” Bond said.

“What?”

“That.”

“Oh, yes, I suppose...I don’t even realise it.”

“What is it?”

“A spell that Mum made. She called it the Find-Your-Way-Back-Again spell. So for protection and good direction. Mum would do this to all of us before we left the house, so we wouldn’t get lost or hurt.”

“And you do it to me all the time.”

“Must be a habit,” Q mumbled, tucking his nose into the hollow of Bond’s throat. “Muscle memory, you know? I can’t do magik.

“No, I think you can,” Bond said, squeezing Q to his chest. “I think you’re much more talented than you think.”

“Oh, why’s that?

“Because I should be dead. I should have died at least a dozen times since we met and yet...here I am.”

“It’s because nothing can kill you. You’re MI6’s cockroach.”

“I hope you mean that in an endearing way.”

“Of course,” Q said, and giggled. His breath tickled Bond’s neck, warm and tingling, like that feeling he had in his chest earlier that day.

“But really,” Bond said, kissing his hair, “I think I’m right.”

“You do?” Q asked, leaning back to look at him with an amused smile.

“I do,” Bond replied, kissing his lips this time. “I love you.”

It was the first time he’d said it out loud, so clearly and plainly. They always said it in their gestures, in their smiles, their touches, everything but their words. And there was power in those words, those three simple words that sent Q beaming vibrantly, that set their skin alive with warmth and electricity and something like magik.

“I love you, too,” Q said, and kissed him so beautifully that Bond did not want to part, not even for air. When Q drew back, he placed soft kisses along Bond’s jaw, moving the agent’s hands beneath the waistband of his pyjamas: “We have to be quiet. Like I said, eyes and ears everywhere. If we’re not careful, my Mum will have a handfasting planned by morning.”

“What’s a handfasting?” Bond asked, as he slid Q’s bottoms and pants down his hips.

Q grinned and kissed him.

“You’ve got a lot to learn.”


	10. Bond "Retires"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Based on the prompt: “James Bond hits 45 and retires. How does it effect him? Does he get depressed? Does he run away and become a vigilante? Does he embrace whatever new job M gives him? Or does he progress from one reaction to another?  
> Does he finally ask Q out now that he isn’t going to die tomorrow and has the chance to do it “properly,” or is he not in the right place emotionally for that yet?  
> I’m interested in the 00Q, sure, but I’m more interested in how you think losing his 00 status will affect James.  
> (also you seem to do a lot of moneypenny helping them get together, nothing against that but could you not this time? I’d like them to work it out themselves)”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Received this prompt from isthisrubble for my 300 Followers Giveaway: “James Bond hits 45 and retires. How does it effect him? Does he get depressed? Does he run away and become a vigilante? Does he embrace whatever new job M gives him? Or does he progress from one reaction to another?  
> Does he finally ask Q out now that he isn’t going to die tomorrow and has the chance to do it “properly,” or is he not in the right place emotionally for that yet?  
> I’m interested in the 00Q, sure, but I’m more interested in how you think losing his 00 status will affect James.  
> (also you seem to do a lot of moneypenny helping them get together, nothing against that but could you not this time? I’d like them to work it out themselves)”
> 
> Okay, so I sort of cheated on this one! Because I do a lot of work with 1) Bond and Q in a developing relationship and 2) Bond reaching the age of retirement in my fics (and usually feeling depressed/defeated by it), I decided to go an alternate route. I also realise that I always tend to write from Bond’s point of view, so I tried Q’s this time, though I’m not sure the POV was the best choice for this prompt. Despite this, I enjoyed writing the prompt very much! It’s the first one that flowed well and allowed me to finish in a day. I hope you like it!

Anyone with eyes could see it clearly as day that James Bond, formerly Double-Oh Seven of Her Majesty’s Secret Service, was far from alright. 

He had hit the mandatory retirement age of forty-five and six months, surprisingly alive, though perhaps not entirely whole. No one seemed to see it but Q, who stood in the back of the room during Bond’s honourary ceremony. Bond was stiff and hollow eyed in his handsome Royal Navy uniform as his public-appropriate achievements were listed, as medal after medal was awarded for his service, his bravery, his unflinching patriotism. And although Bond ought to have been proud being one of the very few Double-Ohs to reach retirement, Q could see that he was anything but. 

Q had worked with Bond too intimately to know him any less. Bond loved his work and was fiercely proud of it, resenting that something as trivial as age could keep him from doing what he was best at. And although Q knew the age cut off was to improve mission success rates, he also knew that Bond would not stop. 

Men like him never could.

“You know I can’t, Bond,” Q said. 

It was three days later. Bond’s MI6 clearance had been revoked, but still, the damned man had been able to get into the building without tripping any of Q’s systems. It should have been alarming, but Q couldn’t find it in him to feel anything but impressed. Bond was not just a blunt instrument, no matter what people might think of him.

“I won’t ask again, Q,” said Bond. 

It had been a long time since they had been so at odds with one another. Over the years, they had learnt to work in some semblance of harmony, but now their reality had become something disjointed and uncertain. They were no longer Quartermaster and Agent, now mere shadows of what they were to one another. A brave new world indeed.

“You didn’t ask the first time,” Q reminded him.

Bond wanted the names and, of course, Q had them. It was the criminal organisation they had been tracking for almost a year now; the assignment always withheld because there just wasn’t enough data to send in an agent. It would be like going in blind until they had something substantial, and Q would not risk a life for it. Especially Bond.

Especially now.

“Q,” Bond said, voice low in timbre, rumbling and dark. 

Q knew Bond wouldn’t take no for an answer, not after Q had discovered that the organisation had been linked with Greene Planet, with Quantum. Q knew then that it was personal, that Bond would go to the ends of the earth to destroy every last lingering thread of Quantum’s network. If not for the safety of the British people, it was for _her_. 

It would always be for her.

“No,” Q said again, and it wasn’t out of jealousy, but out of selfishness. 

He wanted to protect Bond. He wanted Bond to have some chance at normalcy. But even still, that was imposing unwanted dreams upon Bond, who Q knew couldn’t stay. Not when the world needed him. 

“I won’t hesitate to hurt you,” Bond said, as he leant over the desk, large hands spread wide and threatening upon its surface. In all the years that Q had worked with him, he had never been afraid of Bond. But now he felt it: a small tingle of fear and a second of uncertainty. Bond was an uncollared dog now, one that had been on a tether for too long to think kindly of his previous masters. Even still, the rush of fear and adrenaline accompanied something else, a thrill of something Q felt with Bond and only Bond, who he knew would never raise a hand to him. 

“Give me the names,” Bond told him.

Bond’s eyes were piercing and unyielding and Q understood, even if he wanted it to not be true. This was all Bond had left. He was a Double-Oh or nothing at all, and he’d rather be dead than be worthless, than to pursue demons at the bottom of a bottle or the pinprick of a syringe. 

“You know if I did, they’d hang me for treason,” Q replied.

“Don’t tell me you’re afraid of a little risk,” Bond said, his grin as sharp as a knife edge. He was mad, certainly. He always had been, just a little. They all were in some way, to do what they did day in and day out. 

“I don’t think of execution as _a little risk_ , Bond,” Q said, looking away from him. 

He had a choice to make. He either gave Bond want he wanted, risking the man’s life, or kept it from him, and would be responsible for Bond destroying himself. Neither option was truly appealing, not at all. 

“Q,” said Bond, like the way he sometimes said _Q_ when they were alone, when no one was close enough to hear, close enough to see the way Bond would put his hands on him like Q was the only one in his entire world. They never spoke about those nights, the ones that had been with recurring frequency over the years. Unprofessional, yes, but regrettable, no. They weren’t together--Q wasn’t stupid enough to think that Bond would settle down--but he was also perceptive enough to recognise when he went from preferred partner to the only lover in Bond’s address book. 

“No,” Q replied, having perfected his resistance to Bond’s charms over the years, “I’m not letting you do it.”

“To protect yourself?” Bond sneered.

“To protect you,” Q said. 

“So that’s it? You’re just like Mallory and the rest of them, then? I’m no longer useful to you,” Bond snapped, and for a moment, he looked unhinged, inhuman. And Q understood; Bond had lost everything and not in the way he had planned. Q knew that Bond had expected gunfire and blood and explosions, not a slow degeneration into a shell of a person who no longer mattered.

“I didn’t say that,” Q answered calmly.

“You didn’t have to,” Bond said, and abruptly turned towards the door. 

That was it. Q could feel it. The moment Bond walked through that door, he would be gone forever. 

“James,” he said, and by some miracle, Bond stopped. 

“I said I’m not letting you do it,” Q told him, standing up from his chair, “but what I meant is that I’m not letting you do it alone.” 

Bond turned to face him, expression impassive as Q walked round his desk and towards him.

“You’ll give me the intel, then?”

“Yes,” Q said, and braced himself, “and I’m coming with you.”

“No, you’re staying here,” Bond said, in the same tone he used the few times Mallory had tried to give Q field duty. Bond had always vehemently opposed it, claiming that it was irresponsible to expect Q to go into the field, that Q should always be at Six, always _safe_. But there was no safety anymore. 

With Bond, there never truly was. 

“You think I’ll last a week here if they discover I’m helping a rogue agent?” Q asked.

“I’m not a rogue agent. I’m retired,” Bond replied, and his hands were on Q’s upper arms, simultaneously holding and keeping him away.

“Rogue,” Q said, breaking Bond’s hold to come closer to him, close enough to feel the heat and electricity that seemed to live beneath Bond’s skin, “and very dangerous.”

Bond grinned, all teeth as he cupped Q’s cheek. And in that moment, the thrill was back again, the jolt of something new and exciting and terrifying. 

“Sure you’re up to it? I can’t guarantee your safety,” Bond said. 

Q did not even pause to think about his job--laden with bureaucracy and long work hours and tedious administrative duties--or his empty flat that he rarely saw or the gravestones of his long deceased parents that he never visited. His life had always been lonely and routine and _safe_ until Bond had come along, with his half smile when he said _Q_ and the callused pads of his fingertips that brought him to life, a gasp of breath in an otherwise stifling existence. It would be anything but safe with Bond. It would be tumultuous and frightening and _wonderful_. 

And for the first time in a long time, Q leapt without looking.

“I think I’ll manage,” Q said.

Bond kissed him then, rough and hot and bruising, but with no violence, only affection and adoration and something that might have been relief. He thought Bond a fool then, if only momentarily, for thinking that Q would let him do this alone. 

“Well then, darling,” Bond began, kissing the retort from Q’s lips at the use of the pet name. “Make us disappear.”

And Q did.


	11. BAMF!Q

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Requested by Duochanfan: James/Q paring please. Q has a kid (can be adopted or biological, age between 4 and 8 would be awesome). Kidnapping with BAMF Q. The rest is up to you.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ooookay, not really BAMF!Q. I tried, I really did. But I’m not good at writing action...like...at all. So I hope that the overwhelming cuteness can make up for it! Enjoy!

If asked, Bond had to admit that he never would have imagined himself wholeheartedly pursuing a man for a romantic relationship, least of all his superior, who also happened to be his Quartermaster. Surprisingly, it had started innocently, unlike Bond’s other experiences with such entanglements. He found himself first enamoured of Q’s mind, his biting sarcasm and blinding intellect, followed then by his physical appearance, the warm touch of his fingers, the softness in Q’s voice and eyes when Bond arrived back at Six after a particularly rough assignment. And then, Bond’s head was filled with nothing but thoughts and wants of Q, and he had acted impulsively. 

He kissed Q first, then asked him to dinner. 

And then Q breathed like it hurt and said: 

“I have a daughter.”

Bond swore the word echoed. _Daughter_ over and over again. Bond rested his hands on the side of Q’s desk to steady himself as he processed this. He wanted Q, he kissed him. It was supposed to be easy, but. _I have a daughter._

If there was one thing that Bond never _ever_ expected, it was that Q had a child. 

“Why...didn’t you tell me?”

“It really wasn’t any of your business,” Q answered.

“But you have a child,” Bond said.

“Problem?” 

“You’re Quartermaster.”

“And?” Q asked, eyebrow raised expectantly. 

“How do you...manage?” Bond asked weakly, sitting down. 

“I manage, isn’t that enough?” 

“But you’re always here. Meetings, R&D, on the comms… you’re never home…” 

“Unless the world is ending, my hours are almost always straightforward. And the world is usually ending when you’re involved.” 

Bond put his hand over his eyes, feeling suddenly, overwhelmingly guilty. 

“How old is she?” Bond asked.

After a moment of quiet deliberation, Q answered:

“Six.”

“Why, Q? Why didn’t you say anything? Have any pictures…?” Bond tried helplessly.

“I like to keep my private life private,” Q explained, “and by doing so, I’m keeping her safe. I can’t have her picture floating around. It’s too risky. I have to be careful.”

“But you could have told _me_ ,” Bond said. 

“I could have, but it wasn’t relevant,” Q replied.

Bond looked at Q, who averted his eyes. 

“I’m sorry if I’ve...misled you…” 

Bond reached out and touched Q’s hand. Q turned his palm up and twined their fingers together. 

“I know it makes things slightly more complicated, but you don’t have to worry about that. She’s separate from all of this. From what we, well, what I’m saying is that I would,” Q hesitated for a moment, before pushing onward, “I would like to have dinner with you.” 

“I’m not--” Bond began, but cut himself short. He didn’t have to explain: he wasn’t father material, he wasn’t looking for the responsibility of a family. Q knew all of this, and yet.

“I know,” Q said, “and you don’t have to be. You don’t have to meet her. In fact, it might be better if you don’t.”

Bond nodded. 

“Dinner,” Bond agreed, as Q released his fingers and traced them along the inside of Bond’s wrist. The gesture was intimate, offering, and when Bond looked, he saw that Q’s eyes were dark and welcoming. 

“And maybe dessert, too,” Q suggested, and Bond grinned. 

“I think we can arrange that.”

**00Q00Q00Q**

Four months and things were going well. Much better than Bond expected, in all honesty. 

He and Q were remarkably compatible and despite the fact that dates were infrequent, they were memorable, and the sex was bloody fantastic. Even still, Q never stayed the night with Bond and never invited him over to his flat. Bond knew why; there would always be a part of Q that was separate, never shared, never offered, and something about it hurt Bond to the core. He wanted more than what Q offered, even if that meant venturing into the realm of what he Most-Certainly-Never-Wanted, which was the responsibility of caring for a child. 

But the more Bond thought about it, the more he desperately wanted to fill the void that kept Q from staying at night. So, one evening, he proposed it. 

“I want to meet her.”

“No,” Q said without hesitation, as he got dressed.

“Why not?” Bond asked, sitting up in bed.

“We agreed. This is separate from her.”

“Would it be so wrong if--”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Because,” Q said, as he put his back to Bond, “you’ll just end up breaking her heart.”

Bond then realised that this was not only about his feelings, it was about Q’s too. Q had already let him in partially, but this would be everything. And if Bond were to hurt him…

“I won’t,” Bond said, promised.

“Of course you’d say that,” Q said, and it sounded like he was trying not to cry. “You have no idea what it would do--”

“I think I do,” Bond said, saying without saying _I understand because of her_. And Q knew that, Bond could tell, because he turned round with raw apology in his expression.

“I didn’t mean…”

“You did,” Bond replied, “and it’s okay. I understand.”

Q looked away, resumed picking up his clothes and other belongings from where they had been tossed carelessly on the floor. 

It wasn’t until he was at the door that Q paused and looked back. 

“Her name is Harper.”

And then he was gone

**00Q00Q00Q**

They continued on as they had been, pretending the conversation between them never happened. But as the months passed, Bond could tell that Q had started to warm up to the idea. He sometimes would mention Harper in conversation--little stories about the troubles she got into, her already present intelligence in math and science, the ear infection she developed after a particularly bad bout of rain--and one time even showed Bond a picture of her with nothing but fondness in his expression. 

“She doesn’t look like you at all,” Bond admitted, looking at the image of a blue-eyed, blonde-haired girl on a swing at the park. 

“Well she wouldn’t. She’s not biologically mine,” Q answered, snatching the picture back. He looked flushed, as if he hadn’t realised what he had done until after he had done it. 

“What do you mean?” Bond asked. “You said…”

“Yes, she’s my daughter. I legally adopted her when she was five,” Q replied, as he tucked the photo away carefully into his wallet. Then, he looked a little melancholy and continued: “I’m her Godfather. My sister...she and her husband were killed in an automobile accident a few years ago. In their living will they named me as the person they wanted to raise Harper, because my brother-in-law’s family was unfit and, well, our parents were long gone. There was only me. I made it official when my mother-in-law threatened to fight me for custody.” 

Bond didn’t know what to say.

“So you…?”

“Are very protective, yes,” Q answered.

“But did you...have anyone?” Bond asked. 

Certainly there had to be someone to help Q raise the girl? A family member, a lover, _someone_?

“No. Just me.”

Bond reached for his hand across the table. 

“I could,” Bond said.

“You have enough to worry about,” Q replied, and began to pull his hand away. But Bond stopped him, smoothing his thumb along Q’s knuckles.

“But I could,” Bond said again.

Q looked momentarily hopeful, but then his expression hardened.

“No, I don’t think so. I’m sorry.”

**00Q00Q00Q**

Two months later, Bond went on assignment in Karachi to kill a very troublesome man with a terrible taste in his side business of child prostitution. Bond took pleasure in killing him, but even more in saving the children, picking the smallest ones up in his arms to save them from the burning wreckage of the building; even more in returning them to their families who had been desperately trying to scrape up enough money to buy them back from the man who had kidnapped them months prior.

It was two months and three days later, when he was finally back on British soil, that Q came to him, put his arms round Bond’s shoulders and said:

“Okay.”

And Bond kissed him.

**00Q00Q00Q**

Harper was now seven and Bond could tell that she was already on her way to becoming a fearsome lady. The moment Bond walked in the door, she was staring at him appraisingly, then at Q, as if not thinking Bond up to her standards for dating her father. 

Despite her obvious judgement, she hid behind Q’s leg when they were introduced, only coming round when Q scolded her for being impolite. Bond held out his hand to her, which she warily observed, but did not take. 

“My name is James. It’s nice to meet you,” Bond said. 

She stared for a while, unblinking, and Bond thought that he had done something wrong. Q had told him she abhorred being treated like a child, but perhaps a handshake at first meeting was acting too much like an adult. Bond had no sooner thought this when she grasped onto his hand, with tiny fingers hot and slightly damp. They were so small compared to his, pale and delicate and breakable; in that moment, Bond felt an overwhelming desire to protect her.

“You work with Daddy,” she said, not asked, and Bond nodded. 

“I do,” he answered, and she let go of his hand, scrunching her fingers into the fabric of her dress.

“Do you work on the computers too?” she asked.

“Sometimes,” Bond answered.

“Do you know C++?”

Bond looked at Q with a raised eyebrow.

“She likes programming,” Q answered, and at Bond’s dubious expression, Q became somewhat defensive. “She does!” 

As if sensing that the conversation had begun to shift away from her, Harper grabbed Bond’s attention by taking hold of his hand again.

“How long have you worked with Daddy?” Harper asked.

“Over a year now,” Bond said.

Harper frowned at Q.

“How come I never met him?” she asked, very accusingly. 

“James is very busy,” Q supplied, and Harper turned her attention back to Bond, her hand never releasing his.

“You have grey in your hair,” she said. “How old are you?” 

“Er, thirty-nine,” Bond replied.

Bond did not have to be watching Q to see him mouth _liar_.

“That’s really old!” Harper said.

“Harper, don’t be rude!” Q chastised her, though Bond could tell he was trying dutifully hard not to laugh.

“But that’s old,” insisted Harper. “I’m seven.”

“That’s young,” Bond told her, and her cheeks puffed out as she pouted.

“I’m not a baby,” she said.

“No you’re not. Babies don’t know C++.”

Harper looked victorious, her expression a mirror image of Q’s when he got what he wanted

“I like you,” she said, tugging at his hand. “Can we play?”

“Of course,” Bond said, and her expression lit up as she began bouncing on her feet.

“I’m making a robot dog. Daddy says I can’t have a real one until I’m older, so I’m making one. Do you want to see it?”

“My God, she’s a miniature you,” Bond said to Q, who looked immensely proud.

“Indeed she is.”

**00Q00Q00Q**

Bond always assumed that he wouldn’t like children. The ones he usually encountered were messy and screaming and crying over one thing or another, which he found troublesome. Harper was a different case, it seemed. Not only was she fiercely intelligent, but also highly independent. She could go long hours entertaining herself, usually reading or programming, and sometimes Bond became worried when visiting Q and insisted that they check on her.

“She’s fine,” Q assured him with a kiss. 

Bond kissed him back, but knew they could go no further. Q had already laid down the rules; there wouldn’t be anything more than that when they were in Q’s flat with Harper. A long time ago, Bond might have thought that stipulation stifling, but he found an equal amount of enjoyment sitting with Q on the couch and watching telly as he did in the bedroom. It was even more enjoyable when Harper joined them, sitting between them to watch science programmes about animals and astronomy. 

“I want to go to space one day,” said Harper, “like in Doctor Who.”

Something about her innocence felt good and refreshing, and Bond found himself wanting to come round to Q’s flat more often than not. But assignments kept him away for long periods of time and when Bond wanted to ask after Harper over the comms, even secure, Q still insisted they use code words. 

“You know I’ll protect her,” Bond told Q one night, “with my life, I would.”

“I know,” Q said, as he dressed and prepared to leave. He kissed Bond and added: “Thank you.”

**00Q00Q00Q**

On a nice Saturday in May, Q invited Bond along on a trip to the zoo. 

“She’s been hounding me for ages,” Q explained, “and she asked if you would come.” 

So that is how Bond found himself at the London Zoo, with Harper holding onto his hand as they walked among exhibits and vendors. Q hung back, stopping to take photographs along the way of the animals, of Bond and Harper together in front of some of the enclosures. Bond had Harper up on his hip to better see the wild birds when a young woman with three children mistook Bond for Harper’s father, blushingly apologising when Harper corrected her. 

“You’re both doing a wonderful job,” she said, to both Q and Bond with a smile, “she’s a lovely girl.” 

After she left, Harper looked between Bond and Q and asked:

“Do some kids have two daddies?” 

“Yes, some do,” Q answered. Bond noticed that he always answered, even if the question bordered on uncomfortable. 

“Can James be my other Daddy?” she asked, beaming as she squeezed her little arms round Bond’s neck. But the lift of joy Bond felt at her action faltered when something closed off in Q’s expression.

“That’s a conversation that James and I have to have another time,” Q answered.

Harper pouted and looked about ready to go into a sulk, but then Q distracted her with promise of the penguin exhibit, and her attention immediately diverted. When they arrived, Q allowed her to go up to the glass with some of the other children while Bond stood with Q further away from the crowd. They still kept her in sight, but were far enough away to have a private discussion.

“I’m sorry,” Q said, “this is why...I shouldn’t have brought you round. She’s confused now.”

“There are worse things,” Bond replied, slipping his hand into Q’s. He felt a small victory when Q did not pull away.

“I know, but this is...what if--”

“Stop thinking.”

“I _can’t_ , Bond. She’s my daughter. I’ve got to look out for her!” 

“But you don’t have to do it alone,” Bond said. 

Q did pull away that time.

“Stop. Don’t say things like that,” Q said, turning away from him.

“Why not?” 

“You’re making promises you can’t keep.”

Bond stared straight ahead, watching Harper’s pigtails in the crowd. He reached for Q’s hand again.

“What if I retired?”

Q’s fingers twitched in his, but he didn’t say anything.

“What if I stopped and...maybe I could…?”

“Don’t.”

“What if I want to?”

“You don’t want to. You think you do, but you don’t.”

“How do you know?”

“Because I know you, James Bond, and you don’t want that kind of responsibility.”

“Maybe not before,” Bond said, squeezing Q’s hand, “but maybe it’s time that I did.”

Q looked at Bond like he wanted to believe him but didn’t want to hope, and the defeat in his expression was almost too much to bear. Bond couldn’t help but kiss away the little line that had formed between his brows, then the tip of his nose, then his lips. A little sigh escaped Q as his arms came round Bond’s neck and truly, Bond didn’t think there could ever be a more perfect moment. 

But it was shattered when a terrified scream pierced the air:

“ _DADDY!_ ”

Q jerked away in panic and was already moving before Bond could even turn round. The crowd had parted, making way for Q as he disappeared out of the penguin exhibit, close behind two nondescript white males in black jackets. Bond immediately set out after him at a full sprint, reaching for his mobile to activate its distress beacon and his current coordinates to MI6.

Out in the direct sunlight, Bond had to squint against the glare, doing his best to keep both Q and the men in sight. Harper wasn’t screaming anymore, most likely effectively gagged, and once they reached the main area, Bond lost them in the crowd. 

“Where did they go?” Q asked, his voice high, eyes wide with fear.

“We’ll find them,” Bond assured him. 

“How can you be so calm? That’s my _daughter_!” Q shouted.

“And mine,” Bond growled, with just as much heat.

Someone shouted near the exit, and Bond caught sight of the men dashing toward the car park. Q did not even hesitate; he ran and Bond ran after him. With surprising agility, Q lept over the wicket, not even breaking stride, while simultaneously removing a .380 from under his arm. The men were too far away for him to get a good shot, and even Bond couldn’t have done any better with his Walther PPK. 

Then a black car pulled up and the men jumped inside and began to speed away. Q shot at the tyres, but to no avail. The car did not stop.

“Dammit,” Q swore. “Shit. _Shit_.” 

“Q--”

“They’re not getting away,” Q said. 

And he took aim at the nearest car window and shot the driver’s side glass out. 

Immediately, Q was inside and had the interior panel beneath the steering wheel ripped open. The car roared to life and the passenger door unlocked. 

“Coming?” Q asked, and Bond got in. 

The moment the door closed, Q sped off in pursuit, pressing Bond back into the passenger seat. 

“I’m going to drive and you’re going to shoot,” Q said.

“I’m not shooting,” Bond answered.

“You’re going to shoot, James Bond, or so help me--”

“And do what? Wreck the car? With Harper in it?”

Q’s jaw clenched, his fingers tightening around the wheel until his knuckles were white. 

“They’re not getting away,” Q said again.

“And they won’t. Just follow them for now. We’ll figure out a plan.”

“I can’t believe that those words are coming from your lips.”

“You’re not thinking clearly.”

“Don’t talk to me right now.”

“Are we fighting? I think we’re fighting.”

Q rounded a corner and entered traffic with a bit too much speed, nearly knocking the wind out of Bond when he slammed into the side panel. Someone honked. Q gave them the finger. Three cars in front of them, the black Audi turned and entered the motorway. Q followed, remarkably calm as they exited greater London and began moving into the warehouse districts near the river.

The car disappeared into a building in an abandoned lot.

Q stopped the car and checked his gun, then got out and began walking toward the warehouse.

“Where are you going?” Bond asked, following him.

“I thought it was obvious.”

“You can’t just walk in there,” Bond said, grasping onto Q’s arm.

“In case you haven’t figured it out, they want me. They wouldn’t arrange all of this just to shoot me dead.”

“Still, it’s dangerous.”

“I say that to you all the time, and what do you do?” 

“I’m trained!”

“And so am I. If you’re not going to help, then get out of my way.”

“I’m going to help,” Bond assured him, “but first, let’s think of a strategy.” 

“Fuck your strategy,” Q said, pulling the slide back on his Tomcat as he continued walking toward the building, his eyes all hard stone and blazing fire. “I’m going to kill every last one of them.” 

**00Q00Q00Q**

All Bond could think was that it was a saving grace that Harper was unconscious, because Q did not even break stride when he walked in through the front door and went immediately for kneecaps. 

Within thirty seconds, there were five men on the ground writhing in pain. 

“Check them for weapons,” Q instructed Bond, levelling his Beretta at the man nearest him. Bond recognised his coat; he was one of the men who had taken Harper. She lay on a lumpy sofa nearby, gagged and unconscious, but seemingly unharmed. It took everything Bond had to not go to her, instead doing as Q told him. 

Once the men posed no further threat, Q addressed the man he had in his weapon sight:

“Why did you take her?”

“Why do you think?” he asked.

Q shot the man in the other kneecap without blinking.

“I asked you a question,” Q said over his screams.

“Fuck you,” said the man. 

Q smiled and it turned something in Bond’s gut, because it was as unsettling to see Q like this, the man who had admitted needing Bond at their first meeting because _sometimes a trigger needs to be pulled_.

“That was the wrong answer,” Q told him, and fired off his final round into the man’s elbow. 

His screams echoed in the empty warehouse. 

“Now, gentlemen,” Q said, as he tucked his Tomcat away and took up one of the semi-automatics on the ground. He checked the clip and chamber and then aimed the weapon down at the men, moving it from head to head with clear intent. “You know who I am. I’m perfectly capable of extracting information from you in any way I see fit, including torture. And I will make it unpleasant, I promise you that. People don’t touch my daughter and get away with it.”

Q coldly regarded them, aiming the gun at one of the men’s heads. 

“So tell me. Why did you take her?”

It seemed like they were all considering not talking, but then they must have realised their situation, that MI6’s Quartermaster was not someone to be trifled with, not just another person behind another computer screen.

“Our employer...he told us...told us to take her and use her as ransom. Said we needed you!”

“What is his name?” Q asked.

“I don’t know! I really don’t! He never told us his name!” said the man.

“He never did!” cried the man next to him.

“How do you communicate with him?” Q inquired.

One of the men pointed a shaky finger at a toughbook on the desk near the sofa where Harper still lay sleeping. Q looked over at it, then Bond saw his attention move to Harper. 

“Watch them,” Q said, shoving the gun into Bond’s hands, “and if they move, shoot them.”

He left Bond, walking over to the computer, pausing only momentarily to touch a hand to Harper’s hair. Then the gentleness dissipated from him as he spent ten minutes typing frenetically on the computer. When he stopped, Q removed his mobile from his back pocket and made a call. 

“This is Double-Oh-Eight Double-Oh-One. Is this line secure?” Q asked, as he walked back toward Bond, phone up to his ear. “Good. I need you to call in a tactical team. Protocol Alpha-Dash-Seven-Three-Nine-Charley-Bravo, Code Circus. Suspect confirmed, member of Quebec Unit, seat Romeo-Tango-Five-Six-Eight-Seven. Also, required cleanup crew to coordinates linked to this mobile device ASAP.” 

Q rang off and took the gun back from Bond, who hadn’t heard Protocol A-739CB Circus in a long, long time. MI6 had a mole, and not just any. Quebec Unit was Q-Branch. It was one of Q’s own who had schemed this plan. 

“I’ve got your man,” Q said, grinning, “now it’s just about cleaning up loose ends.” 

Bond put his hand on Q’s, over his finger that was flirting with the trigger. 

“I’ll do it,” Bond said quietly in his ear, pressing his other hand against Q’s back, against that place between his shoulder blades that was hot and trembling. 

“I will,” Q said. His hand was remarkably steady.

“A trigger doesn’t always need to be pulled,” Bond said, and Q looked at him. 

“I think that this one does,” Q replied.

“Then let me,” Bond said.

Q just smiled, looking down at the men. 

“No,” he answered, and pulled the trigger.

**00Q00Q00Q**

The cleanup crew arrived sometime later, along with a mobile unit from Medical. Q sat in the van with the doctors as they checked Harper for injuries. She seemed fine, unable to remember the events of the afternoon and groggy from chloroform. They gave her some medicine for the inevitable headache from the drugs, then Bond wrapped her up in his jacket and held her while Q filled out the paperwork for the Medical release. A private car arrived not long after to bring them back to the flat. Bond tried to relinquish Harper to him, but Q did not take her, opting instead to look out the window in stony silence for the duration of the ride. 

“Q, this isn’t your fault,” Bond told him.

Q glanced at him out of the corner of his eye, at Harper, then turned his gaze back toward the window.

“I’ll have to do a better job of keeping her safe.”

“You’re doing a good job,” Bond said.

Q leant against him and turned his face against Bond’s shoulder. The frames of his glasses dug into Bond’s clavicle so hard that it hurt. 

“I’m not.”

“You are.”

“They took her.”

“You got her back.”

“She shouldn’t have had to go through that.”

“No, but there’s only so much that you can do.”

Q didn’t say anything for a long while, not even after they arrived home and Harper had been washed up and put to bed. Bond stood in the doorway, watching as Q tucked her under her unicorn duvet and kissed her forehead. It was only once the door to her room had been closed that Q sighed and rubbed at his eyes. 

“Fancy a cuppa?”

“You know I don’t drink tea.”

“Something harder then?” Q asked, as he walked into the kitchen and reached beneath the sink for the whiskey.

“Have you ever killed someone before?” Bond asked.

“That’s classified,” Q answered. 

Bond saw that his hands were shaking now that the adrenaline was leaving him.

“Have you?” Bond asked again.

“No.”

“Do you regret it?”

“No,” Q said, very cold. “I would do it again if I had to.” 

Bond could not stand to see Q like that, and kissed him in an attempt to soften some of the hardness from his expression. 

“You won’t ever have to. This won’t ever happen again,” Bond said, twining their fingers together. “Family protects one another.” 

Q pressed his lips against Bond’s and breathed out something like a laugh, like a sigh, something in between both happy and sad when he said:

“Thank you.”


	12. Aftermath

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 12: Maltypass requested: “00Q of course; Bond gets back from a mission furious at the techs in charge for fucking up and goes to complain/rage at Q who is somewhat lacking in his usual comebacks before realising something's up with Q that was bad enough to keep him from running the mission. Up to you whether the something in question is physical or emotional and whether it's established relationship or the beginning.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Maltypass requested: “00Q of course; Bond gets back from a mission furious at the techs in charge for fucking up and goes to complain/rage at Q who is somewhat lacking in his usual comebacks before realising something's up with Q that was bad enough to keep him from running the mission.
> 
> Up to you whether the something in question is physical or emotional and whether it's established relationship or the beginning.” 
> 
> Note: Definitely OOC for both Bond and Q, but I tried to do something new instead of of my usual idea of “something is wrong with Q so he must be sick or hurt or kidnapped, etc”. Also, author liberties taken because hell if I know if there really is a helipad on the top of the HSBC building. Doubtful, but for this story, there is one. Use your imaginations :3

Bond was furious. 

After weeks of preparation and meticulous planning, not only had the assignment gone tits up five minutes to end, but then Q hadn’t been there to help him out of it. Instead, he’d gotten some Q Branch tech who sounded as if he were barely out of primary school, stuttering and hesitant, unable to open a _bloody_ door if his life depended on it. Bond had only survived out of sheer luck and the ability to run very, very fast. It might have been enjoyable--like the good old days of espionage--if he hadn’t been so angry.

It had taken him some time to accept the new technological advancements of their agency, which had changed their manner of intelligence gathering. Bond had resisted at first, of course, but the transition hadn’t been too terrible, not with Q guiding him, promising him that no matter what, he would be there, _always_. And Bond had foolishly believed him, _relied_ on him, and look what had happened.

And now Q wouldn’t even pick up the phone, didn’t even have the bollocks to explain himself. 

“Dammit,” Bond growled, resisting the urge to toss the mobile out of the open helicopter door. The member of the Evac squad who sat across from him looked vaguely uncomfortable in his presence and pointedly turned his gaze away.

It made Bond fume all the more for some reason. He just kept thinking about how easy it would have been for Q. Just two seconds on his little computer and Bond might have gotten out of there quietly. But no. Q had gone and abandoned him and without warning, even though they had spoken not even twenty four hours ago, hashing out mission parameters and contingency plans. Certainly Q could have told him then if he had something on. Even if it had been a last minute emergency, he could have put someone competent on the line, like R. No. Scratch that. Whatever stupid board meeting or budgetary committee could have waited until _after_ Bond had finished the job. Bond was more important than any of that. 

Q had told him so. 

And it hurt that Q had lied to him.

“007 please wait until--” 

Bond ignored the Evac agent, removing his safety equipment to jump out of the helicopter just as it touched down on the landing pad. With Babylon-on-Thames still under repair, they were using the roof of HSBC building in Canary Wharf, which, at this hour, would be a nightmare for traffic. Still, there was a car waiting for him after he’d taken the lift down to the main lobby, scaring off a few secretaries on several different floors from joining his carriage when they saw the state of him. 

He said nothing when he got into the car, stewing in his own anger. He’d cocked up the mission, and badly too. The only saving grace was that the intel had been burnt up before his target had escaped. Now he just had a terrorist on the loose who happened to know what he looked like and a power plant factory in France that would be in complete ashes by morning.

His debrief was going to be hell. 

By the time he arrived at Six, it was nearly seven at night. The stragglers from the day crew were still hurrying out while the night shift shuffled in. They all looked at him as he passed, some recoiling from him when they came too close. A well-intentioned woman Bond vaguely recognised from TSS tried to recommend him go to Medical, but Bond sent a glower in her direction that left her running. The rest of TSS and R&D followed suit, staying far out of his way when Bond arrived downstairs in Q Branch. 

Dutifully, they all went back to their monitors, not a single soul protesting as he made for Q’s office.

Bond did not have to know what sort of expression he wore. He knew his anger must have showed, because when Bond threw open Q’s door, the other man did not utter a single comment about Bond’s disheveled attire or one of his usual quips about Bond’s lateness, his poor performance, etc. Instead, he sat in his chair with an unreadable expression. He was not typing, just staring at the door, as if he had been waiting for Bond this entire time. 

Something about it just made Bond irate.

“Where were you?” Bond asked, slamming the door behind him. Q, for his part, didn’t flinch, and couldn’t even open his mouth to get a word in before Bond continued on: “You can’t just leave when I’m in the middle of an assignment. We worked on this for _weeks_. Now all our hard work’s gone to waste. And for what?” 

“007--”

“Nothing! That’s what! And your techs? How can you call yourself Quartermaster when you hire such incompetent people? Your so-called trained professionals botched the entire mission. It wasn’t even _salvageable_ without you there!”

“Bond--”

“I want no one else but you on my missions from now on--”

“ _James_.”

Bond stopped at the tone of his lover’s voice. It wasn’t his Quartermaster’s voice: clipped and short with annoyance, forced with exasperation. It was something that sounded weak and almost afraid; it was something that made Bond really look at Q for the first time since he’d walked into the room. What he saw put the failed mission on the back burner, because he’d seen Q tired before, seen him to the point of so exhausted that it bordered on unhealthy, but he’d never seen him like this.

Bond felt his throat threatening to close, but he managed to get out two words:

“What happened?” 

“It’s nothing,” Q said, expression too heavy for that to be entirely true.

But before Bond could ask, a soft meow issued from the place near his right foot. When he looked down, a pair of gold-brown eyes gazed back at him.

“What’s Einstein doing here?” Bond asked, bending down to pick up the cat. The moment Einstein was in his arms, he began purring and rubbing all over Bond, shedding white hairs onto his ruined suit. The cat smelt like smoke; Bond noticed that the hair on the end of his tail was singed and black.

Bond looked back at Q. 

“What happened?” he asked again, but Q did not look at him, not until Bond said: “Q, tell me.” 

“There was a fire,” Q said weakly, his voice breaking on the word _fire_. 

“A fire,” Bond repeated numbly. 

“At the flat,” Q explained, “early this morning. I’m sorry I wasn’t there for you...it was just…I just went home for a kip and...”

Q lifted a hand and rubbed at the corner of his eye. Everything from his fingers to his wrist had been wrapped in thick white gauze. Bond immediately deposited Einstein onto Q’s desk and came round to his side, kneeling down next to Q’s chair. Both of his hands were in bandages. So close, Bond could smell the smoke on him, too.

“I’m sorry,” Q said again, dropping the hand from his eyes, “Medical just let me out a few hours ago. By that time--”

“But you’re okay?” Bond asked, touching the bandages gently.

“Minor smoke inhalation’s the worst of it,” Q answered, then flexed his bandaged fingers. “And I’m just a bit scratched up from trying to get Einstein out from under the bed…Otherwise, remarkably okay.”

Bond let out a breath he didn’t know he had been holding. 

“Was it…” Bond began, but Q interrupted. 

“It was an accident. Someone left a tea towel too close to the stove. That’s all.” 

“And the flat?” 

“Inhabitable. The ground level got the worst of it, so they’re worried about building integrity,” Q explained with a sigh. “Six already dispatched a team to secure any confidential documents and all of our electronics. It’ll be another few days before we can go get our things.”

“It’s fine,” Bond assured him, rubbing at his knee, “we’ll stay at a hotel in the meantime. How does the May Fair sound?” 

Q smiled at Bond’s attempt at humour, even though it looked like he only wanted to cry. Bond wondered what it was like for Q to wake up to smoke and flame, disoriented and alone. Guilt weighed heavily on his shoulders at the thought.

“I’m sorry,” Bond said, kissing the back of Q’s bandaged hand, “I should have been there.”

Q shook his head. 

“It’s not your fault,” Q said.

“For once,” Bond replied.

The other man huffed out a short laugh, but then his smile fell when he looked at Bond.

“Your suit’s ruined,” Q said. 

“It doesn’t matter. It can be replaced,” Bond answered. 

Q swallowed, his expression crumbling just a bit as he leant forward and put his arms round Bond’s shoulders. 

“I’m sorry I left you,” Q murmured into his neck, as he slid from the chair to the floor. “I should have... are you--”

“Shh,” Bond said, pulling Q closer. “I’m okay.”

Whatever anger Bond felt over the assignment had completely vanished, the last vestiges of it fading away as Q trembled in his arms. Bond pet at his hair until Q’s shaking subsided, then placed a kiss at his temple. 

“It’s all going to be okay.”


	13. Touch starved!Q

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Requested by mchocorock: touch starved!Q doing unadvisable things (eg lots of one night stands), even though he hates it. one time he gets physically hurt; Bond finds out. the rest is up to you!
> 
> Okay so I took liberties with this one and wrote something that I’ve been toying with for a while. **Advanced trigger warning for substance use/abuse and some inadvisable sexual contact with strangers.**

Q hated himself, but he needed it.

 

It had been four months since Skyfall, since he’d become Quartermaster, and he’d been busy, of course, with all the paperwork and transition business. There had also been M’s funeral and a full-scale investigation as to what happened with Skyfall, followed by an excruciatingly long trial. They were the longest weeks of Q’s life, that was for certain. The stress had nearly reached a breaking point and Q had wanted-- _needed_ \--it then so badly, but he’d refrained. He couldn’t do such a thing when under such scrutiny. He had to wait until all the eyes turned away, when there were no other reasons to question his motives or devotion to MI6.

 

It was four months and one day after Skyfall before that finally happened, before Q broke down. He couldn’t stand the taunt desperation that pulled so acutely beneath his skin. He needed it and he knew exactly where to get it.

 

A long time ago, long before he had been reduced to a single letter, Q had gone by other names. He’d gone by the average and the exotic, the unimaginitive and the creative, and while he didn’t quite miss it, sometimes when he was alone, the memory of black doors and red lights came back to him with striking, nostalgic clarity.

 

But that was another life. Now, Q was Q and he could afford what he wanted. Long gone were the days of paying with his body. Or so he thought.

 

“I can pay,” Q argued, but the owner of the club would have none of it.

 

“But, darling, that’s the entire point. You don’t _have_ to,” said Kira. She looked exactly the same as she had years ago, not a line upon her smooth dark skin, and Q felt self conscious, having discovered his first few grey hairs that morning. She tapped one emerald green nail onto the table. “You got a job then.”

 

“Yes.”

 

“Legitimate.”

 

It wasn’t a question.

 

“Very.”

 

“So you’re being careful,” she said.

 

“I have to be,” Q answered.

 

“Don’t worry. I have someone who will treat you right,” Kira said, and slid a single plastic pouch with a single little pill across the table. “You deserve a little fun. What do you say?”

 

And Q was too desperate to say no.

 

He met with the man that night. Tall, blond, big arms. Q thought he looked a lot like Double-Oh-Seven, who he knew wouldn’t be caught dead at a club like this one. He laughed, the drug already taking effect. It really had been far too long since he’d done this; his tolerance was remarkably poor. The joy of the expected high seemed to be pushing all the logic away, all the logic that was telling him he shouldn’t have agreed, that it was dangerous, that this was a man he didn’t know who could hurt him--kill him--if he wanted. But the man said his name was Jason and he pet Q’s hair when he kissed him and Q couldn’t have been happier.

 

It had never been about the sex. For Q, it had always been the sensory bit of it: getting high, having someone move their fingers through his hair, along his skin, feeling music in the wake of someone’s touch, tasting rainbows when he came. And then after, the feel of an arm round him, safe, wanted. It was all he desired.

 

And Jason was nice, so Q went back to see him the next week and the week after. It grounded him, kept him focussed somehow. He could disable bombs and level buildings and kill people with the press of a button. He could deal with Mallory’s dislike and his subordinates’ distrust. He could ignore the way that James Bond would sometimes look at him with those blue eyes like he _knew_ , because at the end of the week he knew could get high and let Jason fuck him while he watched kaleidoscope flowers bloom in the patterns of the club’s silk bed sheets.

 

But before Q knew it, he was back to that old life. Quartermaster some days, toeing rentboy the others. Q should have stopped, but Kira cut him a discount on the drugs if he agreed to meet another client that had been referred from another club. And another and another and another.

 

The new men didn’t have names as much as they did kinks and their touches were rough and overstimulating. Q hated it the first time and the second time and all the times after, but not enough to leave, because when he wasn’t on the drugs and with the men who sometimes hurt him, Q was alone.

 

He went to work and did not socialise, he went home and called for carry away or delivery. He didn’t have the time to meet anyone the proper way, and what was worse: a bit of pain or a perpetual loneliness?

 

But then, one night, he wasn’t careful and Q paid for it.

 

“What happened to your face?”

 

Q looked up from his computer with a start. He hadn’t heard Bond even approach his office, let alone let himself in.

 

“You’re going to give someone a heart attack,” Q chastised him.

 

“So are you, with a face like that,” Bond said.

 

Q scowled at him, trying to hide the wince when the motion of his frown pulled at his clotted lip.

 

“Do you need something?” Q asked.

 

“What happened to your face?” Bond asked again.

 

“It was an accident. On the Tube. Someone’s briefcase,” Q answered, well-rehearsed. He even knew where to put in the frustrated, self-deprecating tone when he said the words so they were more believable.

 

But.

 

“Liar,” Bond said.

 

His voice was soft, but his eyes were hard and dangerous. Q swallowed a bit nervously, wondering if Bond could see the other bruises on him beneath his shirt and cardigan and trousers.

 

“It’s none of your business,” Q replied, unable to raise his voice above a whisper.

 

“If you need anything--”

 

“I don’t,” Q cut him off, looked back at his computer. He didn’t want to see Bond’s pity, his sympathy, his _kindness_. Especially his kindness, because Double-Ohs didn’t have much of that and Q thought it nothing but a waste to bestow it upon him. He had made his own bed and now he had to lie in it.

 

“Q?”

 

“Sorry, this isn’t a good time. I’m busy.”

 

“Of course,” Bond said, but his gaze lingered a few seconds too long before he disappeared.

 

**00Q00Q00Q ******

 

Later that week, when the bruising had faded from the right side of his face and Q could sit without wanting to cry, he went to Kira’s and said:

 

 

“I can’t do it anymore.”

 

 

He stood in the doorway of her office, the tiny little closet behind the stage that had been soundproofed so she could make calls to her dealer between sets and shows. She waved him in; her nails were crimson, like blood. But Q did not go to her, holding his ground. He felt a small bit of pride. It had taken him over a decade to stand up to her, but he was finally doing it. 33 and with a good job and a decent future and he wasn’t going to let her take that away.

 

 

“After everything I’ve done for you?” she asked, and her smile was wicked sharp, like knives, like the surgical scalpels some of her clients liked to use in their scenes.

 

 

“I’m sorry, but I’m not going to,” Q continued, trying to quell his shaking, “I’ll pay you the difference. I’m good for it.”

 

 

“Yes, so good for it,” Kira said. Her smile softened, but her eyes didn’t when she continued: “But, full docket tonight. You can pay me all you want, but that won’t buy my clients’ happiness. And I want them to come back, you see, so you’re going to have to play tonight.”

 

 

She held up a baggie with two pills in it.

 

 

“I’ll make it worth your while,” she promised, “just tonight and you’re free to go. But, of course, you can always come back whenever you’d like. You always were one of my favourites.”

 

 

Q swallowed, took the two steps to her desk and snatched the drugs.

 

 

“This is the last time,” Q said.

 

 

He went in knowing that, but the drugs were especially good that night and his logical thoughts were dampened by a haze of butterflies _so much that he did not realise that there were hands around his throat_ and he couldn’t imagine why he would want to leave this. Even though _they were squeezing hard, too hard--_ he knew he had a reason before, he couldn’t think of it now, because this was a good place. After all _bruising_ someone was touching him now and there were stars bursting in his lungs, like miniature cosmos. _Can’t breathe. I can’t breathe._

 

 

“Q.”

 

 

The lights floated above him like bubbles, white and red and yellow, and then a face appeared. A handsome face, one that he thought about sometimes, often, since Skyfall, because that sort of _blue_ was just unnatural, gorgeous.

 

 

“Q,” Bond said, and his fingers felt like autumn leaves brushing his forehead. So tender, so soft, as if a breeze, and Q shivered. That was what he wanted.

 

 

That was what he wanted all along.

 

 

“Q, I need to know,” Bond said, touching Q’s cheek. Q’s eyelashes fluttered shut, because it was too much with the bubbles and the remnants of constellations in his lungs on top of Bond’s touch. But then Bond shook him, just a bit, and Q opened his eyes. “You need to tell me. Was this consensual?”

 

 

Q blinked away the lights.

 

 

“What?” Q asked, and looked round.

 

 

He was in one of the rooms of the club. The man he had been with was on the ground, not moving. Q knew he should have been concerned, but he couldn’t muster a complaint when Bond’s fingers pressed against his pulse.

 

 

“Did he give you something?” Bond asked.

 

 

“I’m fine,” Q said, trying to wade through the pleasantness back to reality. He knew he had to be in the right state of mind for this, but it was so _hard_ trying to return.

 

 

Bond’s fingers moved round his eyes, and then he was forcing one of Q’s open wide, his own icy blue one looking directly into his. An icy, celestial body.

 

 

“Neptune,” Q said, and Bond moved away from him.

 

 

“You need an ambulance,” Bond concluded.

 

 

“I’m, no, please,” Q fumbled, trying to grasp at Bond’s hands, at his mobile, because he just couldn’t let Bond make that call, not when he was like this. He couldn’t bear the thought of going to Medical, of having to explain himself, dealing with the paperwork and the suspension and the disappointment.

 

 

“What did you take?” Bond asked, as he helped Q sit up.

 

 

“Ecstasy,” Q supplied.

 

 

“Are you at the peak?”

 

 

“Almost.”

 

“Okay.”

 

 

After that, Q wasn’t quite sure what happened. One moment, he was in the club, naked, with only Bond’s jacket for warmth and modesty; the next, he was dressed and in the back seat of a car, driving through a London night filled with light and lfe. The lights were streaks of amber and cyan, some captured into pinpricks of diamonds caught inside droplets on the windows.

 

 

“What do you see?” Bond asked, and his breath was near and warm. Q turned his gaze from the window to Bond, and saw him looking very intently at him in the dark back seat of the cab. But his eyes were alight, two twin stars. Blue. Very blue.

 

 

“Neptune,” Q said again, and fell into him.

 

 

Bond’s suit was like water and his touches were soft like leaves, like blades of grass against Q’s skin, his hair, his lashes, and Q wanted to cry because it was _perfect_. It was so perfect.

 

 

“I’m sorry,” Q said, later, when he started coming back to himself.

 

 

He was on the floor of Bond’s flat before an electric hearth, wrapped up in blankets, snuggled into an assortment of all kinds of pillows. He had Bond’s silk tie wrapped around his hand.

 

 

And Bond’s hand was wrapped around his.

 

 

“For what?” Bond asked.

 

 

“This,” Q said, and closed his eyes, “I...got out of hand.”

 

 

“What you do in your private life is your own business,” Bond replied, “but you have to be safe. Someone could hurt you.”

 

 

“I know,” Q answered, “I knew that, too, but… I couldn’t stop. I just wanted…”

 

 

Q stopped, because he didn’t know how to say it.

 

 

“The high?” Bond suggested, when Q had been quiet for some time.

 

 

“No, not really,” Q said, “it was more...the sensory bit. I like touch. To be touched, I mean. Not sex, more like this.”

 

 

Q looked at their hands, at where Bond was smoothing his thumb over Q’s skin. It sent his flesh alive with warmth and pleasure and happiness.

 

 

“They were hurting you,” Bond said.

 

 

“It didn’t feel that way...until after…” Q admitted, touching his throat with his free hand, “I don’t know how to explain it.”

 

 

“You don’t have to.”

 

 

Q looked at Bond and Bond looked back and then Q realised.

 

 

“Oh,” Q said. “How long has it been?”

 

 

“Not long enough that I’ve forgotten it.”

 

 

Q turned his cheek against the silk pillow.

 

 

“Still, I’m sorry,” Q said, “to have dragged you into all of this.”

 

 

“I would have come barging into it eventually,” Bond replied, and Q laughed until he felt dizzy. He closed his eyes and thought it might be nice to sleep like this, with the fire and the blankets and the pillows and Bond’s warm hand in his. If only this could be every night, he might not feel so restless. “I’m just glad you’re okay.”

 

 

“What would you do...without your Quartermaster?” Q asked sleepily.

 

 

“That’s not what I meant,” Bond said.

 

 

“What did you mean?”

 

 

Bond scooted closer to him, until their clasped hands were pressed to Q’s chest and Bond’s lips were against his. It wasn’t anything more than a simple kiss, a warm brush of skin on skin that was somehow even more perfect than Q imagined perfect could ever be.

 

 

“And...what does that mean…?” Q asked, trying to open his eyes, but he was so tired that he could only manage halfway, enough to see the crescents of twin Neptunes staring back at him in the dark.

 

 

“I’ll explain it to you in the morning,” Bond said, and kissed his forehead, gentle as beach breezes. “Sleep.”

 

 

And Q slept soundly for the first time in a very long time.


	14. Parent!Bond and Teacher!Q

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> faramirlovertheslasher asked: I don’t know if you’re still taking prompts but if you are can I ask for daddy!Bond with Q as Bond’s kid’s teacher. Awkward flirting from Bond and obliviousness from Q.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay so I’m rusty as hell and I can’t help how cheesy this is, but I just wanted to make myself laugh. Mission accomplished. Hope you enjoy as well.

Bond hadn’t honestly believed he would ever become a father, or even close to a father figure. He thought he’d always live the life that he had been: expensive cars, good money, and beautiful men and women to entertain him. But that all ended the day his best friend and wife were killed in a car accident, leaving behind their three year old daughter with no family to take her in. Named as her Godfather when she had been born, Bond knew he had a duty to uphold. He quit his jet setting, high-pay job and found something a bit more mediocre, but with a decent paycheque and a steady 9 to 5, and took Lyndsay Trevelyan in as his own. He had raised her by himself for the past three years. Having been so young when it happened, she barely remembered her parents, but she was like them in so many ways. Bond saw the ghosts of his friends in her every passing day.

 

“Uncle James, you’re late.”

 

Bond straightened his tie as he made it up the last few stairs, where Lyndsay waited for him, hands on her hips. Already six, she was a beautiful lady, often times mistaken for Bond’s own with her blue eyes and long blonde hair.

 

“I’m sorry, Lyn. I’m here now,” Bond said, looking round the corridor.

 

It was a quarter to four on a Thursday afternoon. He was standing just outside of Lyn’s classroom door for the first time since the start of term and he was feeling as nervous as a child going in to see the headmaster. This was his first parents’ evening and he did not know what to expect. Should he have brought a gift or something? He should have consulted the Internet before leaving the office.

 

“Do you want to see my classroom?” Lyn asked, her previous anger forgotten as she took him by the hand and led him into the classroom. The room was brightly coloured and arranged neatly with twenty or so desks in rows of five. There were books lining the shelves beneath the windows, which had been plastered with drawings for parents’ night.

 

But the most interesting thing in the room was not a _what_ , but rather a _who_. At the front of the class stood a young man with a head of dark, wavy hair, and thick black glasses. He was talking with a couple quietly, but turned to smile at Bond and Lyn when he heard them enter.

 

“Please have some tea. I’ll be with you shortly,” the man said, indicating a small setup of an electric kettle and some biscuits near the door.

 

Lyn made a beeline for the table, and if Bond hadn’t been there to supervise her, she would have stolen all the Jammie Dodgers.

 

“You’ve got to leave some for everyone else,” Bond reminded her.

 

“But they’re yummy.”

 

“And we have plenty at home. Have two. I don’t want you ruining dinner.”

 

“What are we having?”

 

“Casserole.”

 

“The one with the cheese?”

 

“Yes, the one with the cheese,” Bond replied, and Lyn latched onto his leg.

 

“I love the cheese one,” Lyn told him.

 

“I know,” Bond said, patting her head.

 

“Can I go play with Sadeeka?” Lyn asked.

 

“Just for a few minutes,” Bond said, letting her skip off into the hallway to meet with her friend.

 

In the meantime, Bond made a small cup of tea and sipped at it, nearly choking when he heard a voice from directly behind him:

 

“Mr. Trevelyan?”

 

Bond spun around and promptly spilled tea in his haste.

 

All over Lyn’s teacher.

 

Bond was frozen in place for a good thirty seconds before he realised what he had done. The man with the impossibly soft-looking hair and stylish glasses blinked and looked down at his tea soaked cardigan and trousers with an unsurprised expression.

 

“I am so sorry,” Bond said, once he could move his mouth. He turned round and grabbed a handful of serviettes, which he promptly began dabbing at the mess on the man’s front.

 

“It’s fine, really,” he was saying kindly, trying to halt Bond’s attentions. “Honestly. I’m used to having stuff all over me. It’s fine, please, don’t worry…”

 

Bond stopped.

 

“Are you sure? At least let me pay for your cleaning,” Bond said.

 

“Ah, that’s no problem. I don’t buy anything that needs to be sent to the cleaners, not in my profession,” he replied, and then looked a little flustered. “Erm, do you, ah, mind?”

 

Bond looked down.

 

He had rested his dabbing hand right on the zip of the man’s trousers. The very attractive man, who just happened to be Lyn’s teacher.

 

Bond jerked back his hand as if he had been burned, promptly knocking back into the snack table, which rattled dangerously. Lyn’s teacher saved the kettle before it toppled over the edge and snatched a tray of biscuits just seconds prior to it falling to the floor.

 

“I am...very embarrassed,” Bond admitted.

 

“I really did not intend to startle you, it’s my fault,” said the man, as he replaced the kettle and plate. Once that was through, he straightened his glasses and then held out his hand to Bond. “Apologies, Mr. Trevelyan, I’m Quentin Quillian. And yes, that is, unfortunately, my real name. Please call me Q.”

 

“Q,” said Bond, shaking his hand. “I’m Bond. James Bond. I’m Lyndsay’s godfather and guardian.”

 

Bond glanced out past the door into the hallway, but he couldn’t see Lyn anywhere.

 

“Her parents passed away when she was three.”

 

“I’m sorry. I had no idea,” said Q. “She never…”

 

“She doesn’t really remember. She was very young,” Bond explained.

 

“That’s terrible,” Q said, and then, looked a little awkward. “Might I have my hand back now?”

 

Bond looked down and saw that he had not yet released Q’s hand. Quickly, he dropped his grip and pulled away.

 

“Sorry, I’m not sure where my head is tonight,” Bond admitted.

 

“It’s fine. Is this your first parents’ night?” Q asked.

 

“Yes, does it show?”

 

“A bit. Don’t worry. Everyone else is nervous too. But not to fear, I don’t bite. Well, unless you ask nicely.”

 

Q turned round and made his way toward the front of the classroom before Bond could fully process the comment.

 

“So, Bond, James Bond,” Q began.

 

“James, please,” Bond said.

 

“James,” Q said, as he unbuttoned his damp cardigan, “where would you like to start?”

 

Bond stared unabashedly as Q removed his cardigan and draped it over the back of his chair. His white button down had gone transparent with the moisture from the tea and Bond could see right through it. He couldn’t seem to look away from the dark line of hair that went from Q’s navel and disappeared into his trousers.

 

“I’m sorry, what?” Bond asked, reminding himself that this was not a strip tease, but rather a parent-teacher conference.

 

“With Lyndsay,” Q clarified, removing a second cardigan from the seat of his chair. It was rumpled and mustard yellow, but when Q put it on, it somehow suited him.

 

“Um...where would be a good place to start?” Bond asked.

 

“Well, I can start out generally by saying that she’s doing very well,” Q said. “All of her scores are average or above average. She seems to get along with everyone very well, too. Very conscientious and polite. I have you to thank for that.”

 

“No, I can’t take all the credit,” Bond said, trying to have a seat at one of the desks, only to find that it was very small. When he recognised this mistake, he tried to get up, but found himself stuck.

 

As if he hadn’t already made a fool out of himself.

 

Q noticed, and offered:

 

“Why don’t you have a seat in my chair? These desks are...quite tiny.”

 

“No, no, I’m fine, I’ll,” Bond tapped at the top of the desk. “It’s cozy.”

 

“You’re stuck, aren’t you?”

 

“Terribly so, yes.”

 

Q admirably did not laugh and came to help him.

 

“This is going to sound ridiculous, but you’re going to have to wriggle your arse,” said Q.

 

“What?”

 

“Trust me. You have to wriggle your arse or you’re not getting out of this desk.”

 

“I bet you say that to every pretty face.”

 

“Only yours, now hold onto my elbow here…”

 

Q put both of his hands on Bond’s right arm and began pulling him. Between that and the way that Bond shamefully wriggled his arse, he was able to get out of the child’s desk, only to promptly fall into Q, sending them both tumbling over onto the ground. Bond was practically on top of Q, who was very long and lean and warm, a reminder that it had been a very, very long time since Bond had had anyone this close... Immediately, Bond backed away; meanwhile, Q barely looked phased at the situation.

 

“Are you okay?” Bond asked, sitting up, offering a hand to Q to help him from the floor.

 

“Completely. I wouldn’t be a first year teacher without having been knocked about at one point or another,” Q said, rubbing the back of his head. It made his hair stick up in all directions, which Bond found incredibly endearing.

 

“Still, I’m sorry. I really am not this clumsy,” Bond said, feeling heat on the back of his neck as he stood. A long time ago, he had been suave and irresistible to both men and women of the social elite. Now here he was, three years out of practice and essentially beating up the first man he’d found attractive in a long while.

 

“Please, don’t worry,” Q replied, accepting Bond’s hand again when he offered it.

 

Q stood and brushed off his front, then straightened his glasses and nodded at Bond.

 

“Well, as we were discussing before, Lyndsay is doing very well,” Q said, as if nothing had transpired. “The only area of improvement I would recommend would be spelling. She’s having some difficulty sounding out words to write them properly. Do you read with her often?”

 

“At night, every night,” Bond said.

 

“Excellent. Keep it up. Have her engage with the reading when you can and practice spelling words aloud,” Q recommended. “You can do it when you’re out and about, too. Have her spell signs or other things that you see on your way. It will build her confidence and help her tackle larger words later on.”

 

“Right,” Bond said.

 

Q smiled and asked:

 

“Okay. Do you have any questions for me?”

 

“Are you...seeing anyone?” Bond asked, before he could stop himself. As if he had even a slight chance with Q after the disastrous past few minutes.

 

“Yes, I’ve got two more parent interviews this evening. I was supposed to have three, but I had a reschedule for tomorrow,” Q answered, sounding exasperated.

 

“No, I mean, are you. Seeing anyone. Right now?” Bond asked. “Dating, I mean.”

 

“Oh,” Q said, and then the realisation entered his expression, “oh, no, no, I’m, well, I’m not. I’m sorry, I didn’t--”

 

“I’m sorry, I’m, I was too forward I’ll just--”

 

“It’s really not--”

 

“I’m sorry, please--”

 

“James.”

 

Bond stopped rambling and looked at Q, who was smiling as he scribbled something onto a Post-It note.

 

“How’s this? If you can promise to not give me a concussion next time I see you, I’ll give you my number and you can call me sometime.”

 

Q held out the note with a playful smile, and Bond took it with a smile of his own.

 

“I’d like that very much.”


	15. atonement

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Q knows James, he tortured him before Skyfall because of whatever you’re can think of. James doesn’t have clue about that but Eve/Tanner/M/ tells him because he tries to woo Q.
> 
> Please angst but Happy End and no NSFW.
> 
> Thank you so much!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I’m not sure if this truly meets the prompt, but I hope that it does! It went in a direction I hadn’t expected and it sort of gets dark in some places, so **advanced trigger warning for mentions of torture and rape **; it’s not super gratuitous or anything, but it can be triggering so please proceed with caution if the thought of it isn’t your bag!****

The moment Q walked into his flat, he knew something was wrong. 

Everything was still where he had left it--wellies by the door, yesterday’s mail on the table in the foyer next to the empty bowl for his keys and the abandoned half mug of tea from earlier that morning--but there was something that made the hairs raise up on the back of Q’s neck. There was someone inside. He felt it, a threatening hum in the dark silence of his own home, and knew that escape was futile. 

Double-Ohs were trained exceptionally, after all.

“Are you here to kill me?” Q asked, closing the door behind him. 

When no answer came, the tension in the room increased until it was almost palpable, until Q was almost choking with it. But his voice hadn’t trembled and his hands were remarkably steady as he removed his satchel and coat and hung them on the hook behind his front door. 

Then, a lamp in his living room flicked on, casting a cone of muted yellow light onto the occupant of the chair beside it. 

James Bond sat there, face contorted in the strange slant of light that cast hard shadows across his eyes and mouth. He was still wearing his suit from earlier that day--the navy one that Q found particularly fetching--but it was rumpled as if Bond had been sitting there for a long while. Q wondered if Bond had come here after their meeting that morning, when Bond had returned his gun and his radio and flirted and touched Q’s hand and had stood close enough to kiss him, but hadn’t. It had been going on for months now, subtle hints and not-so-subtle glances, touches. Q had been trying to avoid it, because he knew that this would happen, but he hadn’t been able to help himself when Bond had asked _Dinner?_ and Q had said _Yes_.

He should have known nothing could happen between them, because Q still hadn’t told Bond about _that_ , and now it seemed he knew. 

Secrets were hardest to keep among spies.

“Tell me, Q,” began Bond, his voice as hard and cold as gunmetal, “why would I want to kill you?”

Q did not reach for the gun he kept under his arm. It would have been pointless, anyway. _Don’t draw a weapon and point it at someone unless you’re prepared to use it_ , was the motto, and Q had no intention of doing so. 

“Probably the same reason why you’re sitting in my flat in the dark, uninvited, and pointing your gun at me,” Q answered. He could see the glint of the weapon in the dark, light haloing the barrel of a gun that Q knew was not MI6 issue, but instead something from Bond’s private collection. 

Bond didn’t answer and Q heard the click of the safety. Whether that was on or off, Q could not tell. 

“Sit,” Bond said, gesturing with the weapon. 

Q did as he was instructed. He went into the living room and perched on the edge of the sofa, as far away from Bond that he could manage. This was not the same man who had wanted to kiss him hours ago, not the same man that Q had believed he would ever have the chance to kiss. 

Not after what he had done.

“Who told you?” Q asked. 

“Does it matter?” Bond asked. 

Q supposed that it didn’t, but he knew that it had to be one of three people. There were, after all, only a few members of the staff that had access to physical files, especially of that nature and top secret status. They’d never been digitised, and for good reason. Q would have destroyed them out of fear and shame on his first day. Maybe M had known that, and maybe the new M did, too.

“Talk,” Bond said.

“I don’t suppose it will make any difference if I apologise,” Q said, not asked.

Bond’s silence gave him his answer.

“Well, it will certainly make me feel better,” Q said, looking up at him. “I’m sorry. I honestly never intended to hurt anyone.”

“But you did,” Bond said. 

Q looked down at his hands. It had been ten years, but it was still something that he remembered very clearly. He’d never been able to escape what he had done, what had been done to him. He hoped that Bond would understand that, somehow.

“At the time, I was still in university and double majoring in biomedical engineering and computer science. They grabbed me off the street when I was coming home from the library one night,” Q began, closing his eyes. “I don’t remember much. I woke up in a room with no windows. I don’t know how long I was there, or how many times they came in and interrogated me about my research. They couldn’t decrypt my laptop. Too many failsafes. They’d already lost some data by that point. All they had was me.” 

Q could recall the room, the chill of the floor, the filth. It had been terrifying, degrading, a Hell on Earth, but Q knew that Bond knew what it was like. He had been there more times than Q could ever want to know. 

“I wasn’t...I wasn’t trained. But even if I had been prepared, I’m not sure if it would have made a difference. In short, I was weak,” Q continued, running a hand across his face, skewing his glasses. “They hurt me, but not enough to kill me, because they needed me too badly. So they hurt me just enough that I wanted to die, waited to die. I didn’t have the means to do it myself or I would have, believe me. Eventually, I couldn’t do it anymore. There’s only so much someone can take. And I gave in.” 

Q remembered the dreaded relief of that moment, when the captor who had punched and kicked and violated him had patted his cheek and given him a blanket, a hot cup of tea, something to eat. He remembered the feeling of sick realisation afterward, knowing how they would use his work, and how he’d vomited up the sustenance he’d coveted for so long, until there was nothing but bile and blood. 

“I thought they’d kill me after,” Q admitted, “but they kept me alive. They had me make changes here and there to the code, but never gave me access to a computer, only pencil and paper. Once it was built, they had me troubleshoot it. I should have sabotaged it then and there, but I never had the tools, the opportunity…”

It had been bigger than Q had rendered in his sketches and far more sinister. The creation he had designed to help doctors regulate their patients’ circulatory systems--heart rate, temperature, nutrient distribution, and blood flow--had been bastardised into a torture device that could turn someone’s own body against them without ever having to inflict a physical mark upon the flesh.

“It was supposed to help people,” Q said, feeling his eyes beginning to burn with tears. “It was supposed to be safe, non-invasive, something to help people who couldn’t take medications, who were in surgery, who were recovering in intensive care. I thought we could help regulate blood flow and pressure in people with aneurysms and ease some of the pain of those people suffering from diseases that attacked the organs, like my Mum’s Lupus. It was never supposed to hurt anyone.”

But it had hurt people. Electrical pulses had been used in place of the infrasound waves. Instead of encouraging circulation, the electrical pulses paralysed the body and could increase nerve and organ damage, resulting in a painful death. The electrical pulses were low grade, enough to be painful, but not kill. Not immediately. The torturer could choose just how long their victim would suffer, using the machine’s ability to keep their vital organs functioning even when on the cusp of death.

“I should have let them kill me,” Q said, raising his head to look Bond in the eyes again. “I’m sorry for what I did. For what they did to you. But I didn’t want it to happen. I didn’t want any of it to happen...”

Bond remained silent, his eyes dark and deep and accusatory. Q wanted to look away, but he couldn’t. 

“Did you see what they did to me?” Bond asked. 

“No,” Q said, but he could imagine. He knew that Bond would have been strapped down, that he would have no means of escape. He knew that the pulses would have shocked his heart and organs; that he would have lost complete control of his bowels and humiliated himself in front of his captors; that, if they had gagged him, he would have been choking on his own vomit. He knew that it would have felt like fire and lightning under every inch of Bond’s skin, that when he inevitably seized and blacked out and the machine would have stopped per his executioner’s will, only to start the moment he came back to consciousness. 

He knew it would have been Hell on Earth, even more of a Hell than Q’s Hell had been.

“How long?” Q whispered. 

“Forty-eight hours until I was extracted,” Bond replied, “and you were, too.”

“Yes,” Q said numbly. 

Men had come to his cell and pointed weapons at him, had dragged him out like a prisoner instead of a victim. They’d blindfolded him and bound his hands and then put him in another windowless room with a locked door. They wouldn’t turn out the lights, making sleep impossible, and questioned him for two days straight without food or water, until he couldn’t stop sobbing and begging for reprieve. 

“How long did they have you?” Bond asked. 

“I was with the terrorists for three months,” Q said, his mouth dry. “MI6 detained me for twenty one days.” 

MI6 had been another Hell, but at least one where he had been given a small cot, access to a real toilet, food better than the scraps he had been getting. Although he wasn’t sexually assaulted by the MI6 team, he was threatened. And he was tortured again, even though he had told the same truth since the first day in their custody. They had held his head under water and beat him with rubber hoses, which is what the others had done, too. Even though his back was already a mess of mottled bruises, Q hadn’t cried. Until.

Q flexed his left hand. 

“They tortured me, too. Broke all my fingers even after I’d confessed,” Q murmured. “They told me they weren’t even going to send me to trial for the thing I’d created. They said they were going to put me in gaol with a life sentence in a high security facility. I knew I’d die there. Look at me. I wouldn’t do well in prison. I think they knew it, too. And, I mean, I deserved it, or at least a part of me believed that. Still believes that. Another part of me insists that I’m a victim, too. They hurt me, too, you know? They took me from my life and hurt me and tortured me and raped me and used everything that I’d built for something monstrous, but no one believes that _I was a victim too_.” 

Q realised his voice had gotten louder, a little less controlled, because everything he had buried for years was coming to the surface: all the guilt and shame of what he had done, the humiliation that had been inflicted upon him. It took a moment for him to reign in his emotions, calm slightly.

“But then they let me go,” Q said, and leant back against the couch. “Well, I say _let me go_. They gave me a new name, gave me 500 quid, and told me I could never go back to my old life. I suddenly had nothing. My Mum had died after my disappearance and she was all I had left of family. I hadn’t even been there for her when…” 

Q stopped, before he could go down that route.

“And all my research was gone, the degree I’d almost finished was nothing to someone with a different name. I was free and yet I had nothing. No clothes, no flat. Just a fake ID and birth certificate and a weak resume that I couldn’t use for anything but working in a shop or cafe. And if that wasn’t bad enough, I was told I would always be watched, that I could never leave the country again. I was still a prisoner, just in a much larger cell,” Q said. “And it took me years to build myself back up. To have pride in myself again. I got off the street and got a crap job and a flatshare with so many people that I had to sleep on the floor. But I went back to school and I was good, really good. I got a scholarship. I passed all my classes and got my Bachelor’s degree. Then a Master’s. MI6 noticed. They wanted me. They said they’d forgiven me. And I thought that I’d finally atoned for what I’d done.”

Q rested his hands, palms up on his knees. 

“And then I found out it was you...” Q said, voice trembling. He hadn’t known when they had first met. It was later, months after Skyfall, when Mallory had called Q for a private meeting. He’d poured Q a scotch and showed him the folder and said _There’s something you ought to know._ Mallory had given him the choice then, to tell Bond or to withhold it, and Q had weakly chosen the latter. Bond had already lost his faith in people, lost the person he probably trusted most in the world, and Q couldn’t do that to him.

“When I found out, I wanted to tell you, but...but I knew I’d never have your trust again. And it was selfish, but I needed you to trust me. If you didn’t, you’d be all alone out there, and I couldn’t have you die. I wasn’t having your blood on my hands twice,” Q said, swallowing. “Still, I’ve wanted to tell you so many times... but I knew it would end up like this, with you in my living room in the middle of the night, pointing a gun at me because you despise me more than anything else in the world for what I’d done to you.” 

Bond leant over and put the gun on the table. 

“I don’t despise you, Q.” 

“You have every right to.”

“They hurt you.”

“And I hurt you.”

“It wasn’t your fault.”

“I shouldn’t have given in.”

“It wasn’t your fault,” Bond said again, like he meant it, and Q wished he could believe him. 

Bond stood and came to sit on the sofa next to him, so close that Q could feel the warmth radiating from him. It hurt more than he wanted to admit, because Q knew that he and Bond could never be. Even if they had gone to dinner and they had kissed, Q wouldn’t have been able to do more. He would have just felt even more ashamed of the secret he had been sworn to never tell. And even now, Q didn’t think he could bear Bond looking at him adoringly, or touching him, or kissing him, because he would be reminded everyday how he had almost killed this man, this wonderful, infuriating, gorgeous man.

“Q,” Bond said, and touched his cheek. 

“Don’t,” Q said, jerking away, “please.” 

But Bond turned Q’s face to him and leant in to press their lips together. Q thought his heart might burst at his happiness, at his guilt, and he pulled away. 

“I’m sorry,” Q said. “I can’t.”

“Why?” Bond asked. 

“I can’t,” Q said again, “I can’t do this knowing it was you. That I hurt you like that..”

“It’s part of the job,” Bond said.

“It shouldn’t be,” Q said vehemently. 

Bond dragged his fingers through Q’s hair to calm him. Surprisingly, it worked; Q felt some of the tension leave his shoulders. 

“You know, Moneypenny and I still get on even though she shot me off a moving train,” Bond said, “and I know that she feels guilty about that.”

“It’s not the same.”

“No, but it’s close,” Bond said. “The both of you never intended to hurt me, but you did. Neither of you meant it maliciously. Both of you feeling guilty about it tells me that.” 

Bond swept his thumb over Q’s cheek. He hadn’t realised he’d been crying until that moment. 

“What happened to you never should have happened. They took away everything from you, and whatever was left, MI6 took away from you. I am so sorry for that,” Bond said, resting his forehead against Q’s. “I don’t want you to feel guilty for something that was out of your control. I don’t want you to feel ashamed of what you’ve done. I want you to be who I know you as now, the person I trust with my life.” 

And then Bond kissed him again, very lightly, but very pointedly on the lips. When he drew back, it was only slightly, so that they were close enough to share breath, close enough that Q could see the sincerity in Bond’s eyes.

“And I want you to go to dinner with me.” 

Q felt his lower lip tremble. 

“I don’t deserve you,” Q said quietly.

“You deserve a better hand than what you were dealt,” Bond replied. “So what do you say to starting over?” 

It wasn’t much, but Q felt a bit of weight lifted from him. He could never forgive himself for being manipulated like he had been, for hurting Bond, for not being there in his mother’s last few weeks. But Bond had listened and forgiven him, kissed him, and Q could only hope that maybe this would be the start of something good. 

He managed to smile, a smile that Bond returned and made Q’s cheeks fill with heat and life and desire, something he had not felt in a very long time, something he thought had been stolen from him long ago.

“I’d like that very much.”


	16. Stranded

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bond gets stuck at the airport at Christmas.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For fishwrites, who got stuck at the airport for two days too many and needed a little pick-me-up. Very happy that you made it safely!

In all his years of traveling, Bond had never seen such a fuck up.

After a stupidly simple assignment in New South Wales that lasted only half a week, Bond thought he’d be back in London before Christmas Eve, giving him and Q just enough time to decorate the small tree in their flat. In all honesty, Bond had been looking forward to an evening drinking eggnog in front of the electric hearth with his lover, battling Q’s cat while hanging baubles and tinsel on the sad excuse for a fir they’d picked out before he had left. But now it looked like he might not make it, not after he’d been at the bloody airport for nearly thirty-six hours.

It had been one thing after another. The flight he initially should have taken out a day and a half ago had been rerouted to another airport due to some sort of mechanical failure. That meant that there was no plane to take them out of Australia until later that evening. But by the time the plane showed, it was too close to curfew and all the passengers were told they would have to wait until the next day. After a restless night in a cheap hotel, Bond had woken early, eager for the planned 9:30am departure, only to discover that the plane was missing.

“I’m sorry,” Bond said to the nervous Qantas agent, “you lost the plane?”

“We did not lose the plane, sir. It was taken off site.”

“A plane was taken off site.”

“Yes.”

“So you’re telling me that someone took a plane from the airport,” Bond said, slowly, trying to understand, “and you’re not concerned?”

“It was...an unfortunate occurrence and we do apologise for the inconvenience. We are doing our best to have the plane released to us so that we may begin prepping for your departure,” the woman replied.

“Released to you,” Bond repeated, raising an eyebrow. “Are you saying that your plane was _towed_.”

“We apologise for the inconvenience,” the woman said again, pointedly not answering as she gestured towards the VIP lounge, “we hope to have you in the air shortly.”

Bond took that as his cue to leave. Dragging his small luggage behind him, Bond went into the VIP lounge and immediately sat at the bar to order a drink. The bartender looked at the clock but said nothing judgmental as he poured out Bond’s scotch and left him alone. Bond sipped at it for a while, hating the walls and the carpet and the lights and everything about the place that he hadn’t been able to escape for the past day and a half. Even the hotel had looked strikingly similar, smelt the same way, and Bond had seriously been in torture chambers more bearable than this place.

He tried to not be aggravated, but it was difficult to keep himself from picking at the soggy napkin beneath his glass, to prevent his leg from bouncing irritably. They’d lost the plane. They’d lost the _bloody plane_. How did that even happen? It was 2014 for Christ’s sake. It was just inexcusable.

So Bond picked up his mobile and dialed a series of numbers from memory, the same ones that he had dialed multiple times the previous evening.

“This is Q,” came the voice from the other end.

“This is shite,” Bond grumbled, for what he knew had to be the ten thousandth time since he’d been stuck.

“What’s going on now?” Q asked, over the sound of frenetic typing.

“They lost the plane,” Bond said.

“How the _hell_ do you lose a plane?” Q asked, sounding outraged.

_Good_ , Bond thought. It was always nice to have Q’s wrath on his side.

“Fuck if I know,” Bond answered. “I think they parked it in the wrong spot.”

“You’re kidding,” Q answered, still typing.

“I wish I was,” Bond said, finishing off his drink. “Can’t you get me on another flight?”

“As I told you yesterday, if I reroute you now, you’ll spend the next two days on connecting flights. Do you want to be stuck in Seoul for Christmas?”

“Can’t you do better than that, Q?”

“Need I remind you of the holiday? Everything is booked solid and there are delays worldwide. Just be happy you’re not in the States. Says here that they’re experiencing another polar vortex...at least another six days before they can get planes off the ground.”

Bond groaned, putting his head into his hand.

“Just be patient.”

“I’m done being patient, Q. I’m about ready to pilot a plane myself.”

“Please don’t. We’re on good terms with the Australian government and I simply can’t handle the paperwork right now.”

Bond slumped in his chair.

“I just want to be home,” he said quietly. He had been looking forward to the holiday more than he wanted to admit. While Queen and Country always came first, Bond had missed every holiday and birthday for the past two years with Q. It had seemed that this year, he might have actually made Christmas, but the way things were going, perhaps not. Bond knew there was a reason why he never got his hopes up.

“I know,” said Q, his voice soft, soothing. “I want you home, too, but there’s nothing that can be done.”

“So if I can steal a plane without getting caught--”

“James Bond, don’t you dare make me turn off your credit cards and yank your platinum status because I can and I will.”

Sighing, Bond tapped at the bar and had his glass refilled by the dutiful bartender.

“I’ll do all I can. I’m seeing if I can get the plane released early by fudging some paperwork right now,” Q said, yawning spectacularly on the other end.

Bond checked his watch. It was only round eight or nine in the evening in London, but Bond had a feeling Q had been going non-stop since he’d left for Australia six days ago.

“Why don’t you get some sleep?” Bond suggested, as he began working on his second glass of scotch.

“I’m fine,” Q said. “I can’t sometimes, you know.”

Bond frowned at that, because if anyone liked sleeping, it was Q. All he had to do was present Q with a flat surface and the other man would be out like a light within moments, hence why Q often kept himself at the lab for days on end so not to be tempted. He knew that Q hated losing steam on a project, but Bond had never heard him complain of insomnia before. But then Bond remembered Cairo-- _I always lose sleep over you_ \--and Seoul-- _of course I’m here, how could I sleep when you’re being chased by gunmen?_ \--and Quito-- _you of all people should understand the phrase ‘no rest for the wicked’, 007_ \--and then it all made sense.

“Do you miss me that much?”

The other end went quiet, and Bond had his answer.

“I’m okay,” Bond said, hunching his shoulders a bit so that the mobile’s speaker was closer to his mouth, so that Q could hear him as he continued softly: “There’s nothing to worry about. I’m safe. You can sign off.”

“You’re not safe,” Q replied, “you’re not safe until you’re home.”

“Q…”

“I want to. Stay on, that is. I have work anyway. Some things I haven’t been able to get done in the past year. And I’m not going to be able to sleep because I’ll keep thinking about it and about you, so I might as well just stay.”

“Go home,” Bond told him, round the thing in his throat that had risen at Q’s words, at what they meant. “Work can wait.”

“The 2015 budget is already late.”

“Budgets are for pencil pushers.”

Q laughed.

“You would say that. You know the main reason I have to write this budget is because of you. If we could go one year without destroying a government building or embassy, that would certainly do us a world of good,” Q said.

“Spain was not my fault,” Bond reminded him.

“Of course not.”

“There were legitimate reasons.”

“I’m sure.”

Bond frowned even though Q could not see it.

“They needed to redecorate anyway.”

“Yes, you said so in your notes.”

He sighed through his nose.

“Fine,” Bond said, “what if I promise not to be extravagant this year? Will you go home?”

“Is this my Christmas present?” Q asked. “Because you know it only counts as a gift if you actually keep up your end of the bargain.”

“Six months no property damage to government buildings and I bring my equipment back.”

“I’ll go home if I can get it in writing.”

Bond could hear him smiling, and that made him smile too.

“Deal,” Bond said. “Now go. And Skype me when you get there so I know you made it safely.”

“Yes, dear,” Q answered cheekily. “In the meantime, start drafting your promise letter. I’m going to have it framed.”

“Go,” Bond said again, and Q laughed and rang off.

Bond set the phone down on the bar and glared at the clock, frowning at how little time had passed. He had two more drinks before he went back out of the lounge to stalk around the gate desk for more information. Apparently they had retrieved the plane (due to Q’s interference? Bond thought it highly likely) but it still needed to be inspected and fueled before it could be added to the enormous list of waiting departures that day. The agents assured him and a slew of other cranky passengers that they would be leaving sometime in the late afternoon. At that news, Bond checked his watch again.

It wasn’t even eleven-thirty in the morning yet.

Hungry and irritated, Bond went in search of food, then returned to the VIP lounge and ordered another drink. He then commandeered a corner recliner and set up there, prepared for another long, unwarranted wait. He was annoyed, even more so when he found his food smothered in mustard. His attempts at saving his meal were in vain, so Bond only managed two bites and a bag of crisps for a meagre brunch. To make up the difference, he drank a bit more until he felt a bit sleepy. Then he pulled out his headphones and tablet, prepared to listen to his Pandora station until the attendants called him or Q rang.

Only a few songs later, his Skype icon lit up and vibrated on the screen. When Bond picked up the call, he was immediately met with a screen full of Q. He was sans glasses and his hair looked damp, as if from a recent shower. He was wearing one of Bond’s t-shirts, the one with the holes in the collar that Q refused to throw away because he loved how soft it had gone from being washed and worn so much. Bond could almost imagine it beneath his fingertips, the way his forefinger sometimes got caught in the fabric gaps when tracing Q’s clavicle.

“Hi,” Q said, with the smile that he reserved for Bond and only Bond, for it was the gentleness that he could only show outside of work. The sight of it blossomed something warm and full of yearning in his chest. Bond had never wished to be home more than in that moment.

“Now there’s a sight for sore eyes,” Bond said.

“You’ve only been gone a few days,” Q reminded him.

“A few days too long,” Bond answered.

Q smiled again, as if he agreed but did not want to admit to it.

“I’m not keeping you up, am I?”

“No, no, I’m awake. Just waiting on dinner,” Q said, he moved the tablet to a different position on the coffee table. Bond heard the distant beep of the microwave and then the sound of Q getting up to go tend to it. Q’s cat, Einstein, jumped up on the coffee table and sniffed at the tablet, putting his white face directly into the camera lens.

“Einstein, get down,” came Q’s voice, and then the screen cleared of white fluff and Bond could see the other man again.

“How is he doing with the tree?” Bond asked, leaning back in his chair.

“Well, he’s only taken it down once since you left,” Q answered, as he worked at the rice in his bowl. “Fortunately no damage yet.”

They chatted back and forth for a while about topics of little consequence. Work, the office Christmas party (which, according to Q, had gone spectacularly badly when someone spiked the punch and got half his techs too drunk to work firewall testing that evening), the general gossip, and even some things that had been on telly. It felt good, normal, and some of Bond’s anxiety slipped away. It even made up for his awful lunch and the obnoxious carpet patterns that made him want to jag his own eyes out.

As the day wore on for Bond, the evening crept towards morning for Q. After he finished his dinner, Q then wrapped himself in a blanket and got comfortable on the couch. Then, perhaps a bit too comfortable, if his drooping eyelids were anything to go by.

“You should sleep,” Bond said.

“No, I’m awake,” Q said again, stubbornly sitting up.

But his eyes remained closed and he didn’t speak again until Bond nudged him with a verbal:

“Q.”

“Hmmm?”

“Get into bed,” Bond said.

“Okay…” Q yawned, “but stay on for a minute so I can say goodnight, okay?”

“I’m not going anywhere any time soon,” Bond replied.

They fell into a silence that Bond had become accustomed to in their flat as they prepared for bed. The tablet camera stared up at their ceiling from its place on their bed; Bond listened as Q engaged the alarm system, then brushed his teeth and washed his face. The ceiling went dark and the camera position changed as Q slid into their bed, alone. Q propped up the tablet on the pillow beside him, and if Bond tilted his head slightly, it was almost as if they were there together, lying beside one another in the dark instead of half a world away. Q’s eyes were closed, but Bond could tell he was not resting, not yet.

“I don’t think I can sleep,” Q said, after a few moments of silence.

“What’s wrong?” Bond asked. He could tell something wasn’t right and it killed him that he was too far away to reach out and touch Q, to kiss him, to take him in his arms and hear him whisper whatever this secret was that consumed him.

“It’s nothing. Stupid,” Q said again, turning his face into the pillow. “Childish, I guess. I just want you here. I hate when you’re not here.”

“I’ll be there soon,” Bond said.

“I know,” Q answered, and peeked out from beneath his fringe at Bond. “Maybe I’m just looking forward to giving you your gift.”

“Oh?” Bond asked. “And what is it?”

“That would defeat the point of a present. They are supposed to be surprises.”

“Then give me a hint?”

“Nope.”

“Oh, come on. A small one?”

“Nope.”

“Does it explode?”

“I will neither confirm nor deny that.”

“It explodes. That narrows it down,” Bond said. “Is it my exploding pen?”

“What is with you and that stupid pen? No, I did not make you something that can accidentally take off your hand if you try to sign a receipt. It’s such a design flaw, I can’t even tell you,” Q said, annoyed. But wrapped up in the blankets of their bed, with his eyes closed and hair tousled, Bond thought him no more angry than a sleepy kitten.

“So something else that explodes?” asked Bond hopefully.

“May or may not explode,” Q corrected him, then yawned again.

“I’ll let you sleep.”

“Mmn…”

Q didn’t say anything else after that, and after a few moments, Bond heard the gentle sound of his snoring. He didn’t sign off right away, wanting to pretend that he was there in their flat in London, sleeping beside Q, close enough to feel the warmth of his skin and breath. But the blare of the overhead intercom interrupted his moment of serenity, reminding Bond all too quickly that he was in fact very, very far away.

Fearing that any more noise might wake Q, Bond brought the microphone piece on his headphones a bit closer to his mouth and said:

“Good night, love. I’ll see you soon.”

But _soon_ turned out to be much later than Bond anticipated.

It was over twenty-four hours and two transfers later that Bond finally arrived on British soil. Fighting the jet stream had taken an entire day, but he’d made it home in time for the last few hours of Christmas Eve. Bond couldn’t wait to have a shower and a hot meal and a real bed. Most of all, he was looking forward to convincing Q into not getting out of said real bed for several days.

Bond was nothing short of exhausted by the time he disembarked and shuffled off towards baggage reclaim with the rest of the bleary-eyed passengers. The only thing he could honestly hope for was that they hadn’t lost his luggage on top of everything. Not only did he not want to deal with the paperwork, but he had a feeling it would spoil the mood if he had to explain that he’d lost Q’s custom rocket launcher in the transfer at Dubai. Especially because Bond had not even gotten the opportunity to use it yet.

But the carousel was empty when they all arrived and Bond could have screamed because he just wanted to go _home_. Maybe he was getting too old for this after all.

From his pocket, his mobile pinged.

_Baggage at carousel 22._

Bond had no sooner read these words before he was on his way, all but running toward the other end of the terminal. It was there that he found heaping piles of luggage jammed on the carousel, waiting in the wrong place for their owners’ pick up. But Bond’s bag was safely out of the mess, reclaimed by none other than Q, who leant on it with his chin resting atop both his arms. He looked sleepy, all bundled up in his muffler and jumper, but when he saw Bond, Q immediately straightened and stretched.

“You know, this could have been stolen,” Q said, by way of greeting. “I could write you up for negligence.”

Then Q grinned and Bond dropped his carry on carelessly, because he needed to get both arms round Q that instant. Everything else was secondary.

He was finally home.


	17. Trace Evidence

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompted by beginte: People at MI6 telling bond that he has cat hair on his suit one day when he arrives late to work.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For @beginte who isn’t feeling well today D: Inspired by this post. 
> 
> People at Mi6 telling bond that he has cat hair on his suit one day when he arrives late to work.
> 
> Humour isn’t my area, but I’ve tried! Anyway, @beginte, I hope you feel better soon!

They’re shagging, they’ve got to be. 

Eve Moneypenny has eyes, just like everyone else, and can tell that James Bond and the Quartermaster are much more than just colleagues. She sees it in the way that Bond sometimes watches Q when he’s immersed in work, the way he glances at the other man when they are in debrief in Mallory’s office. She hears it in the way that they exchange quips and banter in the labs, over the recorded conversations from missions, in the hallways when Q says _Double-Oh-Seven_ with that tone that tries for scolding, but comes across fond. 

It’s cute, Eve thinks, but she has to know if she’s the only one that notices. Surely they do. Surely they’re shagging. 

They have to be. 

She’s got no proof, though. Bond’s rarely in London, and when he is, he’s usually tied up in Medical (for something reckless, as usual) or Psych (because he’s _Bond_ , obviously) or in a number of debriefs, physical fitness examinations, etc. And if he does venture down to the labs, it’s almost guaranteed that Q is tied up in one thing or another, and has very little time for him. 

When Bond comes back from Brazil, she keeps a closer eye on the agent and his quartermaster. They meet only twice in the course of a week, and the conversations are short and precise, but Eve watches the way Q touches his mouth around Bond, the way Bond’s gaze focuses on Q’s, well, _assets_ , as he walks away. 

They _have to be shagging._

But Eve still can’t catch them at anything. No trysts, no secret meetings. They leave at different times, arrive separately, and go for days without speaking to one another. If they are shagging, it’s so low key that she doubts they even know it’s happening. She’s wondering if she should just give up or possibly intervene, but then Bond’s sent out again and things return to the quiet routine that often falls into place when he leaves. 

It’s the morning after Bond’s departure that Eve finds herself down in the labs on behalf of Mallory. Q’s just getting to his desk, looking harried in the way he only does when Bond’s been sent away. Eve wonders if it’s because Q is already worried about him. 

“Good morning, Miss Moneypenny,” Q says, when she’s within his line of sight. 

He seems distracted, however, and Eve takes pity on him by not reminding him (as she always seems to do) to call her _Eve._

“Good morning, Q,” she says, smiling fondly at his unkempt hair and bit of stubble he’s neglected to shave. There’s something endearing about his forgetfulness, about his earnestness to be useful over being presentable. Eve holds out the folder. “Mallory wanted these to be brought to you personally.” 

“Oh, yes, he mentioned those yesterday...” Q says, in the tone that indicates he had hoped Mallory had forgotten. 

“Sorry to be the bearer of bad news,” Eve answers, but Q waves her off.

“I should have collected them yesterday. Sorry for making you come all the way down here.”

“Oh it’s nothing. I know you were _busy_ yesterday.”

Q pauses in removing his muffler and looks at her carefully, as if trying to determine what she knows before answering.

“I’m always busy...”

“But _especially_ so yesterday. You were outfitting Bond for his mission.”

“Yes,” Q says, sounding guarded, and Eve wonders if she’s on to something. “Hopefully he brings the equipment back unscathed.”

Q shrugs out of his coat and drapes it over the back of his chair before taking the folders from Eve. It’s then that she notices two things: the first being that Q has a mark on his neck barely hidden by the collar of his shirt ( _Gotcha_ , she thinks, even though all it proves is that Q has a partner, who may or may not be Bond, but let’s face it, it’s _got to be him_ ); the second being that his maroon jumper is rumpled from what Eve knows is a considerable commute, but what she doesn’t expect to see is--

“You’ve got a bit of, erm, _hair_ on you.”

Q looks down at himself and sighs at the amount of white hairs covering his clothes. 

“Cats,” he explains, setting the folder down onto a huge pile of paperwork. He opens his top desk drawer and pulls out a rolling brush. As he begins tackling the mess, Eve departs politely without saying anything else, but she does spend the next few days wondering how she can prove the love bite had been Bond’s work. 

But then Mallory’s pulled into one thing or another, requiring what feels like thousands of hours of labour on Eve’s end, and it distracts her significantly for almost three weeks. It’s right around the time Bond returns from his assignment, and Tanner asks Eve to get him on the docket for a 0900 debrief with Mallory so that he can start his paperwork. 

Tuesday morning, Bond shows up at 1035, well beyond his usual fashionably late standards of twenty to thirty minutes overdue. That being said, he seems unapologetic as he walks by Eve and goes straight into Mallory’s office. Even though the room is soundproof, Eve has a feeling Mallory’s giving him an earful for his rudeness, not to mention the damages to some of Madrid’s finest historic districts. 

An hour later, Bond emerges from Mallory’s office, and he smiles at Eve with that devil-may-care attitude of his that makes her roll her eyes. 

“If you would have shown up on time--”

“I was otherwise engaged.”

“Oh, do tell?”

“A gentleman never does.”

Eve gives Bond a look. It’s then that she sees it.

There’s white cat hair on Bond’s suit jacket, the bottom hem of his trousers, and Eve can’t help but think: _Gotcha._

“Tell Q I say hello,” she says, and some of Bond’s swagger leaves him when he realises that she _knows._ Her grin widens. 

“I think you’re mistaken.”

“Am I?” 

Bond looks at her, then back at Mallory’s closed door. When he looks at her again, there’s a sort of earnestness there that Eve never expected. It’s serious between them, then.

“We were attempting for discretion...” 

“And you’ll have it. A true lady never gossips.” 

Bond straightens up.

“Appreciated.” 

He’s halfway to the exit when he stops and turns round to regard her.

“How did you know?” he asks, and Eve wants to tell him that it was Hell trying to figure it out, because they were _that good_ , but then she thinks about how she doesn’t want it to go to their heads, so she keeps her mouth shut.

Instead, Eve puts on an innocent face. 

“I can’t say,” Eve says, and begins laughing. “ _Cat’s_ got my tongue.”

Bond blinks at her, then looks down at the cuff of his sleeve, where a plethora of white hair clings to the merino wool. He utters a soft swear under his breath at the sight of it, at being figured out. But he’s smiling, just a bit, and there’s something about it that makes him look more like a man and less like a killer, his eyes a shade of blue that’s alive and _happy_. Eve’s never seen him look like this before, but she thinks she’d like to see this side of him more often. 

“Bond,” she says, just before he leaves. He stops just in the doorway and looks back at her. 

“You might want to invest in a lint roller.”


	18. Short Challenge - 00Q Harry Potter AU

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry Potter AU: In which Q works at Rosa Lee’s Teabag and Bond is mysterious, well-dressed stranger.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the three-sentence challenge, prompted by starknjarvis, in which I failed to write three sentences because HARRY POTTER AU?

On the evening of the twelfth of June, Q’s enchanted quill paused in the middle of scribbling down the day’s inventory when the bell above the front door at _Rosa Lee’s Teabag_ rang out two minutes to close.

Q berated himself instantly for not remembering to lock the door with a simple _colloportus_ charm, because tricky customers always seemed to come in two minutes to close and that meant he was going to be late meeting Eve at the Leaky Cauldron for that pint he’d promised her ages ago. But he supposed that he could try his best to move things along, and the best way to do that was not to hide in the back room and hope that the customer went away. So Q straightened the front of his uniformed robes and went out into the main shop to see how he could be of service.

But the standard greeting he usually offered never made it to his lips, because the man in his tea room was not his usual fare at all. He was nearing middle age, but unfairly handsome: blond, blue-eyed, and built like a Quidditch Beater. He also looked like he’d just stepped out of Twillfit and Tattings’ front window with his bespoke robes of high quality silk and wool. Q felt some heat climbing into the back of his neck as he looked at the man’s thick arms and strong hands and thought _just my type._

The man smiled at him, as if he had heard Q’s inappropriate thoughts. Q felt a small victory in not letting his face flush with embarrassment.

“How…may I help you this evening?” Q managed.

“What’s your name?” the man asked.

Q blinked. It wasn’t often that someone asked that of the person blending and preparing their beverage.

“I’m Q,” he said, and then, remembering his manners, asked: “And you are?”

“Bond,” said the man, “James Bond.”

_James Bond_. Now that was a name, Q thought, but forced it out of his mind along with other things, like arms and hands and those startlingly blue eyes.

“And how may I help you this evening, Mr. Bond?”

Bond became suddenly very serious.

“I need your help.”

“To find a new blend of tea…?” Q asked uncertainly.

“To save the wizarding world.”

Q stared. 

And blinked. 

And then stared some more.

“Huh,” was all Q could say.

Apparently he wasn’t going to be meeting Eve for that pint after all.


	19. Short Challenge - Pacific Rim AU

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompted by corpusinvictus. Supposed to be three sentences but...Pacific Rim is my absolute favourite! I actually wrote a lot for this one (apparently I’m not good at only doing 3 sentences at a time…) so here’s about seven or so? I hope you enjoy!

The real world was nothing like being in the Drift, where memories and emotions and experiences all blended together in a synchronous warm stream of consciousness.

Outside of the Drift, Bond felt so cold, so separate from Q, even when they stood side-by-side. For one glorious moment they had been a single entity, a unified consciousness, and then they had been torn apart and returned to two separate bodies. And now if felt as if all their clothes and flesh and bones and sinews were barriers that stood in the way of what they truly were and what they could be.

There was nothing quite like being inside of Q’s mind, inside his very essence, knowing what it felt like to breathe with his lungs and see with his eyes and move 2500 tons of steel with their combined electrical synapses.

Bond knew that Q felt their disconnect too, like an ache, a missing limb. And because of it, there was always a desperation in their lovemaking, a desire for a closeness that no two physical bodies could ever achieve, because there was nothing so intimate as the Drift, and there never would be.


	20. Short Challenge - The Road to El Dorado AU

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> prompted by theold-ultraviolence  
> Okay so this was great because it made me watch The Road to El Dorado after not seeing it in forever. TOTALLY NOT THREE SENTENCES BEcause I’m a failure but here, have some fic ;) Hope it was sort of what you were looking for!

“I’ve got an idea, so give me a boost,” Q said, standing up with a sudden energy that Bond found incredible after being locked in a ship’s cargo hold for the past few weeks.

Bond lifted Q to the best of his ability, but despite Q’s slight weight, Bond’s arms and legs were weak from lack of food and water, resulting in a rather awkward hold that forced Bond’s cheek against the curve of Q’s back. Despite the awkwardness, there was something enticing about the shape of Q, the delicate femininity that worked in harmony with his intriguing masculinity, and Bond felt a flush in his cheeks that had nothing to do with the oppressive heat.

“A little higher,” Q said.

“You’re heavy,” Bond complained.

“Do you want to get the map and get out of here or not?”

Bond grumbled to himself and readjusted his hold on Q to push him higher, resulting in a very nice view of a very plush arse. He allowed himself to look, only because Q was otherwise occupied…holding their last ration of food up through the grate.

“ _What are you doing_?” Bond hissed, but Q ignored him.

“Heeey,” Q whispered through the bars. “Heey you want this apple? It’s a nice apple. Come and get it.”

Bond heard the whinny of a horse from above and groaned, pressing his forehead against Q’s hip.

“You’re talking to a horse.”

“Shh,” Q scolded him, then continued on talking to the horse. “You can have it, but only if you do a trick first. You need to find a _pry bar_. It’s a long piece of metal with a little hook on the end–”

“You’ve lost it. You’ve gone completely mad...”

The words were no sooner past his lips than Bond heard the clatter of something metal land at his feet. He looked down at the ring of keys next to his boot and then at Q, who seemed just as surprised that his insane idea had worked. Then Q smirked, smug that his plan had worked. 

Bond just rolled his eyes and said: 

“Well, it’s not a pry bar.”


	21. Things You Said When We Were the Happiest We Ever Were

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the "things you said" prompt list, for beaubete~  
> Super sweet. Like diabetic, tooth-rotting level sweetness imo

It’s not often that there’s a day when the alarm doesn’t go off at six in the morning, or there’s a call even earlier than that regarding one international emergency or another. It’s even less often that the day coincides with sunshine and temperatures decent enough to open all the windows in the flat. And it’s the least often that all of these things happen when Bond is home to enjoy the day with Q.

It’s a Sunday coming on June, unseasonably warm and dry compared to the weather from the past few months. They feed the cats early, then open the windows to let in the breeze so that they can spend the rest of the morning in bed, reacquainting with one another after almost a month apart. It’s nothing short of perfect coming home to the sound of London, the smell of their sheets, the warmth of Q’s body beside him and Bond wonders _is this what it feels like to be loved?_

After, as they lay there together, Bond thinks that if he believed in heaven, it would be this moment. The cats are napping in the slant of sunlight from their bedroom window, purring contently. Beside him, Q is dozing, his hair and skin slightly damp, a sliver of sunlight highlighting his hip. Bond follows the curve of light with his fingers, watching the gooseflesh rise on Q’s skin.

“I missed you,” Q says.

The curtains move in the breeze, the gentle wind tickling Q’s hair against Bond’s cheek. Outside, a car passes with the radio turned up. Q lazily hums the next few bars long after the car has disappeared, tapping his fingers against Bond’s in a gentle rhythm, and it’s so beautiful, so honest, that Bond doesn’t think he’s ever been happier.

“I missed you, too,” Bond says.

“Well, I missed you more.”

It’s silly, so very out of character for both of them. But the day is so rare and unseasonably beautiful and it’s just the two of them, so Bond indulges.

“I missed you most.”

Q laughs softly, something he doesn’t do often, maybe doesn’t have reason to do often, and Bond feels inexplicably loved.

“It’s not a contest, is it?” Q teases.

His eyes are still closed and he’s smiling in that way he sometimes does when Bond kisses him on the cusp of sleep. So Bond kisses him again, because he can, and Q sighs so sweetly into it that Bond wonders if he can ever be anywhere else.

“Always.”


End file.
